


I've forgotten what I started fighting for

by wonthetrade



Series: my head's not bowed [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Background Relationships, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 12:46:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 31,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5417588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonthetrade/pseuds/wonthetrade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack Eichel hates Connor McDavid. End of story. But then he breaks his collarbone, hate sex happens, and things get a little complicated.</p><p>No one ever said being a woman in the NHL was going to be easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you got here by searching yourself of someone you know, turn back now. It's for your own health and safety.

Jack goes second overall in the draft because of Connor McDavid.

It doesn't really register at first, not in the rightness of catching Tim's eye as the Buffalo contingent goes up to the stage, of her mother crying and clutching her tight, of slipping the Sabres' jersey over her head and laughing when Tim confesses he's shaking more than she is.

But afterwards, when she's had her interviews and the shock wears off, it all comes screeching back. She doesn't shake Connor's hand when she passes him in the hall, but he bobs his head and gives a weird little smile as he keeps walking. He's so damn _weird._ Why is he first again?

Oh yeah, because he's McJesus, the predicted saviour of a franchise.

It's not that Jack has a problem with Connor, per se. She'd have a problem with anyone in his position, achieving everything so goddamn easily when she's fought tooth and nail to get to where she is, facing the taunts and comments and threats, only to always come up short by virtue of the fact that she has a vagina rather than a dick.

She's done everything she can to escape the comparisons. But everywhere she turns, it's Connor this and Connor that. His presence overshadows everything she does and it's like a noose coiling tighter and tighter around her neck. She should be enjoying this moment, but all she can think about at times is continually pushing herself to be better than him, because she _is._

Her eyes burn and she hates it. She hates that she's so angry about it, hates that god damn Connor Mc- _fucking_ -David had to be eligible in her year because she should have gone first. She should have gone first but she has breasts and a vagina and _Connor fucking McDavid_ _knocked her to second overall_.

They sandwich her between Connor and Stromer for the top three photograph and it takes all of her self-control not to poke his eyes out. Hanny's standing just off to the side, giving her concerned looks and constantly mouthing _be nice_. Honestly, he needs to relax because it's not like she's actually going to kill him and dump the body in the swamp.

Maybe.

Hanny's been confused by her behavior at all the draft events. In real life, Jack's a pretty social person but she's been more withdrawn, sticking to Hanny like glue. She knows he doesn't get that she can chat easier to Crouse than say, Stromer, but she and Crouse speak the same brand of asshole so they get along just fine. Marns is all right, but in small doses, and Stromer doesn't seem inclined to talk to her that often. As for Connor...

A hand lands at the small of her back and Jack twitches because _what the hell is that_. The weight instantly disappears. "Sorry," Connor apologizes, inching away. "I thought - for the picture - is that okay?"

Hanny is nodding so frantically he looks like a bobblehead. It's a good thing he's standing behind all the photographers or they'd think something was up. The media loves speculating over her relationship with Hanny, because she must be banging someone, right? Jack would probably be really fed up with it except that Hanny's clear discomfort and sometimes outrage over the whole thing is kind of endearing. There's definitely something of a Knight Errant in him, so she just likes to tease and sit back to watch the fireworks. Not now, though. "Sure thing," she manages through gritted teeth.

Connor blinks at her and flashes a tentative smile. On her other side, Stromer sighs and slings an arm around her shoulders, all buddy-like. "Cool, can we take this picture then Davo? People are waiting here," he drawls.

Connor flushes as though he's only just noticed the cameras. "Oh, right, sorry guys."

_Sorry._ How very Canadian. She rolls her eyes, slings an arm around Stromer's waist and raises other hand to flash the number two.

When that photo goes out, half her Twitter mentions gush about how lucky she was to stand in between Stromer and Connor. She rolls her eyes. Sure, it's probably the beginning of a lot of fantasies, and yeah, she can appreciate the fact that they are, objectively, excellent examples of hockey bodies but come on. The mentions don't say a damn thing about her going second overall and she feels like she's only there as a placeholder, rather than a damn good hockey player.

Well, screw them. She's going to prove them wrong.

* * *

No one warned her being drafted included a phone tree. Specifically, a phone tree of women in the NHL. Jack's not sure she's ever had so many women text her at once. She has messages from Crosby - of course, though it's polite and nothing special - and Nugent-Hopkins out in Edmonton - which throws her, because she has McJesus, no matter what kind of weird sisterhood apparently exists. But the one Jack really stumbles over is Tyler Seguin.

_BOSTON BABY! You and me, this summer._

Jack blinks at it for a good thirty seconds before she types back, _okay?_

And that's how she ends up letting Tyler Seguin drag her around the Galleria with a sugar-charged confection that is definitely not in her diet. Segs - because she insisted and Jack's the rookie here - is a demon in a mall, weirdly torn between knowing exactly what she's looking for and merely browsing. Jack likes shopping, she really does, but Segs is on a whole other level and it's a little terrifying.

"Bennie's been giving me shit about my skirt length," she explains with a long-suffering roll of her eyes. "So, naturally, I need a shorter one. His face is _amazing_ when he's about to have an aneurysm."

"I don't think killing your captain is your best plan," Jack offers, because it's still awkward and she's not used to girlfriends outside of her sister. Something Hanny was quick to point out, using the phrase "girl date," which really just made Jack want to punch him.

Segs waves a hand dismissively. "Almost. I'll stop before he actually keels over. I mean, he has a sister."

Jack refrains from pointing out she's pretty sure Jordie Benn is just as allergic to malls as Sid and therefore is more likely to wear jeans than try and kill her brother with naked thigh. Instead, she buries her nose in her Starbucks cup.

"Speaking of captains."

Jack's brow wrinkles. She hasn't spoken much to Gionta and opens her mouth to say such.

"McDavid."

Her hackles go up. "Or not."

The look Segs sends her is downright disappointed. Even reproachful. "Dude. Don't, okay?"

Jack doesn't know where this is going, but she's also sick of hearing about first round picks and how amazing he is. She's all set to tune the speech out, but Segs snags her arm, forcing Jack's attention back to her. "Going second to a dude is hard," she says, and Jack seriously considers rolling her eyes. But Segs is dead serious. There's no glee in her eyes, no struggle. This isn't the party girl trying to get a rise out of her captain and not giving a shit about the media. This is someone who's been there, done that. "It sucks. And you're never going to hear the end of it. It's going to take you twice as long to find your place because you think you deserved to go first."

"Damn right I did."

Segs shrugs. "Maybe. But it's not his fault, you know?"

Jack bites hard on her tongue. Of course it's not his fault. It's _never_ his fault.

"What I'm saying is...the media's going to milk the hell out of this. And you've made it clear where you stand on the whole thing." That look is _definitely_ reproachful. Jack hates it. Except Segs is there, clasping her shoulder supportively. "The only thing you can do is go out there and play your game, okay? Who goes first isn't going to matter when it comes down to what you can do on the ice, for your team."

This is so uncomfortable. Jack wishes herself almost anywhere else, but Segs won't release her eyes.

"You're getting to do something here that so few people do, us girls included. You have the chance to be a franchise player, and holy fuck you are not playing in Edmonton."

She snorts a laugh.

"Do not fuck up this opportunity by being bitter, you hear me? The press can say whatever the hell they want, but they shouldn't dictate how you play." She plants herself in front of Jack, arms akimbo, but she's far too skinny to be any real threat. "Got it?"

Jack sighs, crosses her arms. "Yeah, sure, I'll think about it." That's all she can promise. Holding grudges is kind of a failing for her, but she's been working on it. Sort of.

Segs eyes her for a moment, weighing the response, then shrugs. "Plus," she says, flipping her hair. "Hallsy didn't turn around the Oilers and I'm killing it on the Stars. It all evens out."

And Jack laughs, relaxed for the first time. Because of course, Segs went second to Hall. This woman knows how she feels better than anyone else out there. Jack chews her lip for a moment before saying. "We face him in December."

The smile Segs flashes her is absolutely predatory. "Light it the fuck up, Eichs."

* * *

And then McJesus breaks his fucking clavicle.

They're not playing the day he does, in between games with the Islanders and the Lightning, so she doesn't hear about it right away. She's goofing off with Georgie - the kid loves hockey as much as she and Matt do - when she hears, "Holy shit Jack, did you see this?"

Matt doesn't say that very often. At least, not when it comes to hockey. He's been adamant over the course of the season that she stay away from reading her own press. He's a pitbull about when she goes looking for it too. When Connor had one-upped her goal with two of his own, Matt had wrestled her to the floor more than once when she'd come across the ensuing media insanity. That's about when he'd started hiding the iPad and throwing Mila and Georgie at her so Jack is distracted from all of the articles that pop up about the goals and the natural comparison that she just cannot seem to shake.

Matt actually asking her watch a highlight? She unfolds herself from the floor and slips into the seat next to him, curling a leg beneath her.

"See what?" she asks. Georgie whines at her a little and she murmurs at him to give her minute as Matt swipes the video back to the beginning.

Connor's easy to pick out. She's pretty used to finding his 97 on the ice because watching his tape is a ridiculously normal part of her life. She expects another phenomenal goal because she knows he scores those with irritating regularity. Instead, she watches him fucking trip, of all things, sliding along the ice. The moment he hits the wall with two Flyers on top of him she winces.

Sympathy comes first because she is not a fucking robot, thanks. It's a nasty fall and when he gets up, holding his shoulder, she _knows_. She finds herself holding her breath as the reporter comes back on, talks about how he sat on the bench for a few minutes before being taken away for x-rays and something in her goes cold.

The screen flips to the hosts where they've got a picture of Connor splashed against the right side of the screen. On the left, the anchor is talking about _broken clavicle_ and _out indefinitely_.

"Fuck."

"Poor kid."

Except that's not at all what Jack's thinking. Broken collarbones aren't anything to scoff at. She knows a handful of people who have had the same injury and it's not one that's easy to heal. She also knows their schedule inside and out. More importantly, she's kept very careful track of when they're set to play the Oilers. Even with the best doctors, she knows there's no way in hell Connor's going to be back for their game in December.

Well fuck.

 

She forcibly pushes it from her mind because they have a fucking game to win and it's not like they've been lighting up the league. She's still a rookie and not Sidney Crosby and so irrationally grateful Tim had made it clear that while he looks at her as their next big franchise player, he doesn't expect her to win them the Cup in her first year.

It works, too. She doesn't think about it on the ice. She's not thinking about it as she trudges dejectedly to the locker room after their losing streak. It isn't until she's shrugging off all her gear, media strolling around them that it pops back into her head. It only does because someone specifically asks her about it. And asks about it. And asks about it.

Really, it was only a matter of time before someone made her lose it, just a little bit. Connor isn't brought up until the end of a scrum after morning skate, and the reporter actually has the gall to ask if they're _friends_. Despite all the media training she's endured, nothing can keep the annoyance off her face. "With him? No, we're not friends," she says, doing her level best to keep her voice from shaking. "I don't really know him. I don't have his number. We were friendly when we were together in different situations, but that was really it. He's a good kid, so I got to know him a little bit in person."

Sammy, Enzo, and Bogo swoop down on her afterwards, forcing her off to lunch. They talk about everything _but_ Connor McDavid, and for that she's unbelievably grateful.

The same cannot be said for Marns, who sends her sad emojis and asks if he needs to defend Connor's honor or something. Or Sid, who simply writes, _I understand but you have to keep a lock down on that kind of thing._ Or Hanny, who outright calls her.

"Jack-"

"I was going to beat him fair and square, Hanny." Jack's glad she's down in the basement, where her steadily rising voice won't disturb Matt and the family.

He sighs. "You can still do that, you know."

She has to remind herself that throwing her phone across the room accomplishes nothing but breaking said phone. "No, I can't. It's not fair now. He's screwed everything up. God, I could kill him," she mutters, seizing upon the idea. "Maybe I should. I can fly out to Edmonton. I don't think Nuge would help me hide the body, but I could always ask."

"STOP. Jack, you are not going to fly to Edmonton to murder Connor." There's a short pause. "I mean, murder in your rookie year is probably not what you really want to be known for."

She chews her lip, considering what she's about to say because she is not a whiney little bitch. She just...it's her rookie season and she's already lost out on so many things because of fucking Connor. "This injury...if I win, it invalidates my Calder," she admits because she is upset and if anyone is used to dealing with her moods like that it's totally Hanny.

"Okay, rude," he chuckles, making her grin and flop back onto the couch. His voice softens. "Any win of yours would be fair and square. Anyone who says otherwise is an idiot."

"Awww. This is why I love you." Any other time, she would hide the affection in her voice but it's _Hanny_.

He snorts. "Yeah, yeah. Now get some sleep, you have games coming up."

Before she goes to bed, there's one more text message waiting for her. This time, it's Segs. _It sucks, rookie. But you have the rest of your life to play this dude. It's just one game._

Jack stares at it for a moment, then types back, _Yeah._

 

She tries to let it go. Segs and Hanny are right, and it's not like she makes a concerted effort to ignore their advice. She's just really damn good at holding grudges.

It doesn't help that by the time they get to Edmonton it's festered, buoyed by a couple more questions and repeated references to the player that won't be on the ice. Honestly, Jack is _livid_. Her redemption story, her moment to shine and prove she's so much better than McJesus and she won't fucking get it.

At all.

And she is _livid_.

But she has better control than she did last time, so the next time the microphones are shoved in her face her response is perfectly bland, though she can't resist taking a subtle little potshot at the media. "For me personally, I'm just focused on the Buffalo Sabres. I think the media tries to make more of it than it is. If I were to speak for Connor, I'm sure he's not too worried about it. I'm not either." Worried isn't the right word, of course. Furious is more like it. "We're both in our respective cities playing for our own teams and worried about ourselves and our well-being."

Still, it's the last time she talks to or gets wind of the press once they get to Edmonton. She's grateful for it, for her teammates and in ways she hasn't been before. She's all but vibrating in the locker room, a twitch under her skin that doesn't settle, even when she steps onto the ice. She promptly gets booed and bares her teeth a little because she is so very far from surprised.

About six minutes in, she's battling Draisaitl for the puck in the corner, wins it and ferries it over to Gio. While everyone's focused on him, he tips it back to her, and the goal off her backhand is a beauty. Jack beams, feeling some of the tension lift but something still doesn't feel right or settled inside of her.

After that, things don't deteriorate, but...they are not playing their best game. They miss plenty of good chances and leave themselves open and vulnerable enough for both Hallsy and Ebs to score; Purcell and Gazdic, too. O'Reilly gives them one back but by the time they hit the halfway point of the second period, the frustration is starting to bleed into their play. Dan is doing everything he can to work through it by switching the lines up but no one seems to be reading each other right tonight.

Maybe riling Nuge up isn't the best way to get around it, but Jack's always been a bit of a shit at heart. Still, she doesn't think it warrants the high-sticking. Naturally, she chirps her every time their shifts coincide, which isn't often.

"Your boys keep trying to stir shit up," Jack observes, trying to steal the puck.

Nuge glances over at her, completely unimpressed. "Yeah, and what are _you_ doing?"

"Playing hockey," is the blithe reply, which results in a little shoving as they make their way towards the Sabres' end, but the refs are there to break them up before anything happens. Then Evander and Hallsy get into a fight and honestly, Jack has never prayed for a game to end before but she does it now because it's a shitshow and she doesn't really understand why.

The horn goes to end the game and she is honestly not sure if she is all the more pissed off for losing or whether she's just plain grateful to get out of a game they couldn't seem to get a handle on. The team gives her a healthy berth in the locker room and that doesn't help settle her either.

Then some asshole of a reporter asks her how she feels about the "Connor is better" chants she received and she can actually feel her blood boil. Thankfully, her face stays pretty neutral even if neutral far from what she actually feels.

She has to do _something_ , or the results aren't going to be pretty. Once she's back in her suit, she turns to Matt and says, "I'm hanging out with Ryan. I'll just see you guys in the morning, all right?"

Matt says nothing for a moment, just gives her a long look and frankly, it's a struggle not to look awkward or guilty. "Sure," he says eventually. "Have fun."

"I will."

Jack receives more than her fair share of odd looks as she lingers outside the Oilers' locker room, but no one says anything so that's a relief. But Hallsy stops dead when he sees her, causing Ebs and Nuge to crash into him.

"What the hell, Hallsy, doors are for going through, not-" Ebs' eyes widen too.

Jack raises a hand. "Hey guys. I was wondering if I could hang out with you?" She's aiming for casual but clearly fails judging by the level of skepticism she receives from the boys. She knows how cheeky she's being, especially with the way she needled Nuge on the ice but she's kind of banking on the fact that Nuge doesn't seem to carry anger off the ice. Plus, they actually had chatted about hanging out.

Nuge, however, shrugs. "Sure. You can ride with me, Eichs." She doesn't say anything else until they're on the road, a casual, "You want to see Davo, don't you?"

"Yep." There's no point in lying, not when her level of anger and frustration is this real and definitely palpable. "I think we need to have a chat."

She's not sure whether Nuge gets it, but she doesn't ask. She only nods, and for that, Jack's grateful. At their apartment building, Nuge points out the place she shares with Ebs across the hall before leaving Jack to all but pound on Hallsy and Connor's door.

Evidently, no one's given Connor a heads up that she was incoming because the look on his face when he opens the door and sees her is nothing short of dumbstruck. "Eichel?"

Jack drills her finger straight into the middle of the damn Oilers logo on his zippered hoodie. "You. Fucking. Asshole."

Connor blinks at her. "Sorry?"

"This was my fucking redemption you utter shit. I was going to come in here and beat the fucking pants off you and check you into the boards before I scored. And instead, you had to go and break your fucking clavicle like an absolute dipshit."

"It's not like I tried-"

"You slipped on your edge you fucker. You. Of all people."

Something flares in his face that she is too damn angry to try and figure out. "You saw it?"

"Everybody saw it. I could have had eight points that night and no one would have given a flying fuck because you _broke your collarbone_."

"Okay." And he takes her wrist, uses it to tug her into the apartment.

She chooses to step in. She's not finished yelling at him and she's at least aware enough to know that if she keeps yelling at him in the hallway, someone's going to get pictures. Or worse, video. The last thing she needs is to add fuel to the rivalry fire, even if it would be fuel of her own creation.

Hallsy skids to a stop behind her in the doorway. "Right," he declares, glancing between them. "I'm just going to go." He lingers though, his hand on the doorknob, and Jack takes some satisfaction from the little bit of fear on his face. "This isn't going to be a crime scene when I come back, is it?"

There's nothing nice in the curve of her lips and both Hallsy and Connor turn pale at the sight of it. "Who's to say?" she says innocently, which looks more than a little wrong on someone with her height and build.

Hallsy sighs, resigned, and points at her sternly. "I can and will send Nuge in here to protect him."

"I can protect myself," Connor mutters. They both ignore him, stuck in some strange standoff. Eventually Hallsy gives up and leaves, closing the door behind him.

The click of the latch makes her lash out again, planting both palms against his chest and shoving. He wraps his good hand around her wrist again and the momentum of his backwards stumble takes her with him. He hits the wall with a hiss and well, that just makes her angrier.

"What are you _doing_ ," she starts, ready to cuss him out again for about a million reasons before he wraps that good hand under her braid and yanks her in.

She resists, because _what the actual fuck_. "Seriously, what-"

He tilts her head, and the next thing Jack knows, they're kissing. He's not gentle about it, there's nothing questioning or testing. He bites at her lower lip almost immediately, takes advantage of her surprise, to stroke his tongue against hers.

_Oh hell no._

She's the one who's pissed. She's the one who took the loss tonight and had their rivalry shoved in her face every single waking moment. This isn't the type of fight she'd been looking for, true, but the heat that sparks through her has almost the same feeling. Hate sex, she can and will admit certainly sounds like the much better option. So she bites back, hands at his hips, nails digging in through his hoodie. She shimmies off her coat, barely noticing when it falls with a wet thud on the floor. Fingers grasp the edges of her suit jacket, dragging it down-

It catches on her wrists, pinning her arms uncomfortably behind her back. Jack makes an irritated noise and stumbles back.

"God! I'm sorry, let me-"

She bats his hand away and takes it off herself, glaring. "Maybe we should leave the clothing removal to me from here on out, huh?" The rest of her clothes hit the floor in rapid succession. "Bedroom?"

"Down the hall, on the left."

She feels oddly powerful, stalking through his apartment stark naked as he scrambles after her. He's stripped down to his boxers by the time they reach his room, and she wastes no time shoving him down on the bed and straddling his thighs. "You owe me, McDavid."

His face is surprisingly eager as he reaches out for her. "I'll make it up to you, yeah?"

Ugh. Sure, she set him up for it but... "You're a little shit."

"Maybe. But…" He reaches for her hips with both hands, which is simply not going to happen.

She takes his left hand, folds it across his chest. "Don't be stupid, McDavid. Don't you _dare_ move that hand." She refuses to be the reason he's out even longer.

He arches an eyebrow, but flattens his hand, broad palm and long fingers, not that she's noticed. This isn't real sex, she doesn't have the time or the inclination to linger. She'd rather think about where those fingers are going to _be_. It's a roundabout satisfaction she will most definitely take. If he's going to break his clavicle and keep her from getting back at him on the ice, she's going to extract her revenge in orgasms.

Jack rocks her hips a bit, right against the bulge in his boxer-briefs, her hands flat against his abs. Objectively, they feel damn good beneath her palms. She circles her hips again, watches his head tip back. Heat zings through her, the power, the demand, the control of doing this. It has nothing to do with the arch of his neck, the way his good hand clenches on her thigh.

"Come here."

She snorts, ignores the way he tugs on her leg. "I'm good."

"I can't get my mouth on you from there."

Surprise zips through her, her fingers curling reflexively on his stomach. "You can't. You have a broken collarbone, asshole. There's no position in the world that is going to make that work."

"It'll be fine, it'll-" His hand trails up her thigh, his thumb brushing against the soft skin where her leg turns into her hip.

"No. Fuck." She's shivering, the light caress and the way her anger is shifting to an entirely different kind of heat. "We are not going to set your recovery back. I'm getting my rematch in March."

He curses, quietly, but it's enough to leave her with a raised eyebrow, another questioning look on her face. She's right, they both know she is, but she can't lie and say seeing him this desperate for it doesn't make her a little regretful that she's not riding his face.

"You suck."

"Not tonight." She rocks her hips again. "You fucked up my night. You promised to make it up to me."

Challenge flares in his eyes and sends a corresponding heat through her body. This is what she needs, something to push against. There's no room here for sighs in the dark and lingering caresses. She wants teeth on her neck and bruises on her skin.

When he finally does touch her, it's hesitant. She fights back the urge to roll her eyes and seizes his wrist, using her fingers to guide him. "No, not like that. Harder."

Jack has to give it to him, he's a fast learner. Soon his fingers are moving exactly the way she likes, leaving her to trail her hands up to cup her breasts, pinching and rolling her nipples until he's surging beneath her, eyes wide. "Damn it Eichs, you're killing me."

"Good." Her head falls back, her eyes sliding shut. Jack has had some experience with hate sex, but she's pretty sure she's not supposed to be this wet against his hand as she rocks her hips, as he moves with her.

"Eichs. Eichs come on."

"What?" she manages and her face does something weird with how breathy she sounds. "Don't want to work for it, McJesus?"

"I hate that name."

She will say later that it's the twist of his fingers that makes her shiver and not the low, rough quality of his voice, the determination that washes over his face. She'll say the catch in her breath is about the circles he's drawing on her clit, not about the intensity he's directing at her. The fingers of his left hand are twitching against his chest, his arm still despite the fact that she can see how badly he wants to move it. She reaches for his wrist, holds it, presses it into his chest. It changes the angle, everything just right, just perfect and he must see it. She can see the triumph in his eyes when she slips over that first peak, shuddering above him.

"That's one," he murmurs, his fingers slipping out from between her thighs.

Jack huffs because she's not going to give an inch, even now. "Yeah, but I'm expecting at least a hatty." She raises an eyebrow in challenge. "You good for it?"

Connor looks hilariously offended at the mere suggestion that she'd be left hanging at all, let alone the implication that he can't get her there multiple times. "Of course I'm good for it." His hand curves over her ass, wet and sticky, pressing her down as he grinds up.

The friction of his boxers against her clit is just right, forcing her to let out a low, throaty moan. His fingers grip hard at the sound, leaving indentations in her skin. "Nice," Jack manages breathlessly, already reaching down to shove his boxers out of her way. "But not quite what I was thinking."

"Condoms," he mutters, tilting his chin up and away to expose the long line of his throat. She has the oddest urge to lean down and _bite_ but shakes it off, reaching over him to retrieve them herself. The press of his chest to hers is a distraction, as is the sharp nip of his teeth on her collarbone. Her fingers fumble in the drawer as his mouth dances over her neck, her clavicle. His hand is pressing awkwardly into her stomach, the one attached to the broken collarbone and it makes her shiver. He's done as he's been told, hasn't moved it, and that deserves something, at least.

Truthfully, he's been better than she expected. His entire life has been hockey and he hasn't had the college experience of the NCAA, so these little tricks are a hell of a surprise. As she shifts up, the angle and the spread of her thighs nudges her clit against his left hand and it's unexpected enough that it forces a gasp out of her mouth. Connor goes utterly still for a moment before he shifts his hand.

Jack shouldn't. She really shouldn't, especially not with that hand but she's still sensitive after her first orgasm and she does have her heart set on a hatty. She presses her hands into the pillows. Foil crinkles in one hand - had she even realized she'd managed to grab a condom? - but she ignores it in favour of the sparks flashing over her nerve endings.

His hand slides up her side, presses between her shoulder blades. "Not moving it," he murmurs into her skin, but he shifts it minutely, curls it just a little, presses up deliberately. He's given her something to grind against and it's not the most comfortable position, but he has his mouth on her breast as she rubs against his hand, so.

"Okay," she says finally, a shudder wracking through her as he bites. She's definitely going to have marks in the morning. She shifts back down, lifts up on her knees so she can wrap a hand around his cock. He groans, loud and long, his eyes fluttering closed and she's pretty sure she's not supposed to take pleasure in the look on his face. The hand on his chest shines a little and Jack shifts down a bit more to suck on his knuckles, bite a little.

"Holy fuck."

"That's the idea," she says, making quick work of the condom. His hand is clenched around her thigh, tense, like it's the only thing keeping him from going off. She jacks him a few times just to see the flush spread over his face, to watch his body go stiff as he holds off. Self-contained is a pretty good phrase for Connor, but she's never thought about it in this context. A whole slew of new ideas flash through her head, the possibilities stretching endlessly.

She shakes her head. The possibilities don't matter. It's not like they're going to do this again. She'll get her revenge then walk away and continue to hate him and their goddamn fucking rivalry.

The first stretch feels fucking _fantastic_. Connor's chest is heaving as he watches her with hot eyes that can't stop moving over her face, her body, where she's taking him in. He groans when she lifts off, squeezes his hand around her thigh. Jack presses her hand against his left wrist, still bent across his chest, relishing the way his hips buck up like she's made him desperate for it.

"Come on," he says, slides his hand back up to cup her breast, rub a thumb leisurely over a nipple. "You're the one that wanted the hatty, _babe_."

In retaliation she sinks down on him completely because she is damn well not his 'babe', God. His hips press back up against hers, a thrust stymied by her weight and he actually chokes on whatever sound wants to escape. She laughs, dark, low, distracted by the way he strains against her. His wrist is tense under her hand, like he wants to throw her off and use it, get both his hands on her, maybe fuck into her until she's arching against the bed. But this is her show, and that's not going to happen.

She circles her hips, listens to his desperate groan. "Pretty sure I'm not supposed to be doing all the work here, Davo."

"Kinda limited my repertoire here."

"Limiting your - like you even have that much game." She glares at him, rocks down hard again to hear him moan, a vicious reminder of exactly who's holding the power here. Connor slides a hand up her thigh aiming for her clit. She expects to have to direct him again, remind him exactly where to touch, how hard. But he presses his thumb down, just to the left, rubs a little and she surprises herself with her second orgasm.

Him too, if the look on his face is any indication. She'd probably think him adorable if he weren't Connor fucking McDavid who cannot seem to stop ruining her life.

"Oh my God, _Jack_."

She hums, maybe a little proud of herself for making him sound just that wrecked. Serves him right, the asshole. She shifts experimentally, considers that hatty she'd demanded. She's definitely got one more in her if she takes her time, if she goes slow.

She can go slow.

She starts by reaching for his wrist, tugging it away from her clit as she sits up. He tangles their fingers together, holds fast when she whines and tries to yank them away. He uses it to tug her back down. She makes a disgruntled noise as he cups the back of her head again, biting at her mouth. This, she thinks, she can do, meets his every bite with one of her own. It's a battle as much as anything else, as much as she imagines the game would have been tonight.

The sound of her moving over him, _on_ him is positively obscene, coupled with her short, hitching gasps and his sharp grunts. Her free hand fists in the pillow as she grinds down, some of her hair slipping out of the braid to form a curtain around them. It's fitting for what they're doing, something hidden and far away from the outside world.

His hips buck beneath her, driving the breath out of her lungs and- "Fuck," Jack hisses, feeling that slow tightening, the spreading of heat throughout her body. She bites at his shoulder, his neck, and not gently either.

"Come on, come on Jack," he chants, low and wrecked, against her mouth. "One more time-"

She'll never know what, ultimately, sends her crashing over the edge into her third orgasm. The next time she slams her hips down, he's pushing up into her and everything goes white. She hears a cry and a groan, is really not sure which one of them makes which noise and rides wave after wave after wave.

When she comes to she's sprawled against his chest, head tucked into his shoulder. His hand is trailing up and down her back and her body shudders in overstimulated bliss.

"Sorry," he murmurs. "You okay?"

She's wrung out and raw and does not want to fucking move no matter how much she knows she has to. She needs to shower, clean up and get back to the hotel. And she will. Just… maybe in a minute. She's tired and he's warm against the chill from fucking Edmonton.

She pats his shoulder. "Good game."

He snorts, but he doesn't tease her, doesn't even poke fun. His voice is warm as he says, "Scored a hatty, didn't I?"

Jesus fuck.

"Don't let it go to your head. I did a ridiculous amount of work there, Davo." She wrinkles her nose. Her words are slurring.

"Three apples for you."

"Fuck off."

She protests when he shifts beneath her, a sound that shifts rather resolutely into a growl when he shushes her. A moment later there's a warm hand on each hip - she is going to fucking _murder_ him - and he's slowly, carefully sliding out of her. They both hiss and she has half a mind to shove at him but that's probably too much effort.

"Be right back."

She murmurs something, reminds herself she has to get up, get dressed. She's not staying the night. But...three orgasms, three really good orgasms, are amazing and wonderful and fucking exhausting not to mention the hellish emotional high of her absolute rage and the game that they just hadn't been able to make anything of.

But fuck, she feels _awesome_.

She hears him pad back in a moment later, mutters curses at him when he nudges her over to her back. He murmurs something she doesn't catch before she feels something soft and damp brushing at her thighs. She shifts, considering, sighs because she really did do a lot of the work tonight-

There's a tentative brush against her stomach just as her eyes are fluttering open again. "M'going."

"Or, you know, not," he says and she realizes that brush is his hand, his palm spreading just above her bellybutton. "It's December in Edmonton and kind of freezing."

And well, when he puts it that way. "Yeah. Okay."

He's quiet for a moment. "I'm sorry about-"

Jack shoves a hand in his face because she does not need the reminder about their loss. "Shhhhh. I don't cuddle. And you'd better not snore."

 

"Oh my god," she hears Hallsy announce the next morning. "This is worse than finding a dead body!" There's a thump and some murmurs, then the sound of the front door shutting. Jack muffles a laugh in her pillow before glancing over at Connor, who is still dead to the world. Good. This is not a morning after discussion she particularly wants to face. She worked off her frustration and that's all that matters. She doesn't need to deal with this particular brand of morning-after awkwardness.

She's tugging her phone out to call a cab when she almost runs into Nuge standing in the hallway as Jack lets herself out, pulling her bag over one shoulder. "Need a ride to the airport?" she asks neutrally.

Jack blows out a breath, scanning her face for any sign of judgment but finding none. "Yeah, that would be great."

 

She's taking some time for herself back in Buffalo when her phone rings, Segs' face flashing for the Facetime call. Jack's eyebrows wrinkle. They text, sure, but Facetime?

"Segs?"

"When I told you to let go of the whole rivalry thing, I really hadn't meant bang him through the mattress."

There's a smug heat that flashes through her stomach, a shiver that drills down her spine despite herself. Still, she frowns. "Nuge didn't strike me as the gossiping type." Nor do Segs and Nuge seem particularly close.

"Yes well, she had some concerns."

What? Nuge hadn't said a thing on the drive to the airport, even though she'd assured her that Matt knew to get her stuff from her hotel room. "And she couldn't tell me?"

Segs makes a face and points at her, an eerie imitation of Hallsy. "None of that, okay? Nuge wasn't talking about you behind your back. She just wanted my perspective on the situation. For one thing, I had to assure her that there was no hate-banging between me and Hallsy, which, _ew._ "

Jack laughs, startled, and presses the backs of her hands to her eyes. She feels better about that because well, Nuge is almost a friend. "Okay."

"So…" Segs trails off, arching one perfect eyebrow. Jack's kind of jealous because she barely _has_ eyebrows, while Segs has like, Cara Delevigne ones. "Wanna talk about it? And I don't mean details, but I mean if you're in a sharing mood…" Now those eyebrows are _wiggling._

Jack stares at the screen, completely nonplussed. "Look, I just...I was mad at him for breaking his collarbone because anything that happens from here on out is skewed, you know? And I was looking forward to kicking his ass at the game because it's all anyone would talk about and I never...sleeping with him wasn't supposed to happen, okay? I just need him to be good so that _I can be better_." She's sure her entire face is bright red because while she might have a lot of feelings, she's not exactly in the habit of word-vomiting them everywhere.

Judging by Segs' dropped jaw, it's not what she was expecting, either. "Whoa, whoa, okay rookie, calm down.

"I'm calm," she grits out.

"You're definitely not. Okay, I get being pissed off about not being able to play him, but that _really_ doesn't translate to banging his brains out. At least hate-sex makes sense."

"It _was_ hate-sex," she insists. "And it's not happening again."

Segs just makes a tiny little noise, neither agreement nor disagreement. "Let me know how that works out, okay?"

Jack growls. "Fuck you, Segs."

The laughter that floats over the connection sounds too much like a cackle for Jack to be okay with it. "Nah, I'll leave that to the kid. Make good choices!"

Jack hangs up on her.

* * *

Segs in a goddamn lunatic. Somehow, she's managed to cram every single woman attending the All-Star Game into her bedroom. After a day on the floor mingling with fans, she insisted they get ready together.

Danielle, already dressed and looking like a Valkyrie, is sifting through Segs' open suitcase with detached interest. "Did you really need to bring all these dresses for the weekend?"

"Those aren't just for me," Segs replies from where she's applying Jack's makeup. Makeup is an area Jack is not as experienced in - fashion is more her thing - so she'd been happy to hand the reins over to Segs. She had drawn the line at heels. One sprained ankle in her life is enough, thank you very much. "There are extras for other people, just in case."

Marcia reaches over and pulls out something that looks like a tube of sequined fabric. "Segs, you're being pretty optimistic about who can fit into your skinny-ass dresses. I'm pretty sure Sid couldn't even fit her leg into this."

"Some of them are stretchy!" Segs protests at the same time that Sid squawks, "Hey!"

Carey slaps Sid lightly on the shoulder. "Stop moving around, or I'm never going to get this braid right."

The sight of _Sidney Crosby_ sulking is one for the ages. "I don't understand why I have to wear a dress anyway, it's going to be under my jersey for the entire night."

"It's the principle of the damn thing, Sid," Segs says, doing something to Jack's eyes that make them water like hell. "There are more women at this All-Star Game than there ever have been before-"

"You said this last year," Danielle points out.

"-and we should show them how amazing we can look and still kick ass."

Steph glances up from where she's painting her nails glittery gold (of course). "I'm all for it." That's no surprise, seeing as she plays with Roman Josi, who should actually be a model. Mallory, who has inherited her brother's impeccable fashion sense, makes a noise of agreement as she expertly curls Carey's hair.

It's a great image: Sid, sitting cross-legged on the floor and looking mildly outraged while Carey pulls her hair into a truly spectacular braided mohawk, Mallory standing behind Carey and wielding a curling wand like it's an extension of her hand. Jack snaps a picture, ignoring Segs disgruntled noise. Instagram will love this.

"There!" Segs proclaims, stepping back. "All done!"

"Eichs!"

"Oh, you look _fierce._ "

"Nice work, Segs."

Jack barely recognizes the woman in the mirror. Earlier, Mallory performed a minor miracle and actually tamed her curls, coaxing them into looking like something other than a fuzzy blonde cloud around her head. And Segs - Segs has somehow made her angular features into something, well, _fierce_ rather than hard. "Cool."

Segs droops. "You look like a fucking Amazon and all you can say is _cool?_ I'm disowning you, Jack."

Jack just shrugs and leans in closer to the mirror to inspect her eyes because the dark, smoky colors are kind of pretty.

"Okay Sid, your turn. With the hairstyle Carey's giving you, I'm thinking something like Jack's but a bit more winged out-"

"Like hell," Sid bursts out. "You've already wrangled me into a dress, Segs, I'm not-" She gestures towards Jack. "Doing that. No. Even though Jack looks really pretty. But no."

Segs points at her with the makeup brush, brandishing the eyeshadow palette in her hand like a deranged painter. "Oh yes I am," she threatens, advancing on Sid, who screeches and promptly launches herself off the floor and lunges towards the door. Thankfully, Carey's finished with her hair and watches the exchange placidly, rolling her eyes.

Sid yanks the door open and all but falls into the hall with Segs hot on her heels. Up and down the hallway, doors open and the guys poke their heads out to find the source of the ruckus. "Segs, don't you _dare_ come near me with that-"

The door directly across from Tyler's opens and Geno barges out in nothing but a towel, his hair wet and sticking out every which way. "Sid?" he barks. "What's wrong?"

Jack makes it to the doorway just in time to see Sid's eyes do the whole elevator thing, not that Jack blames her because Geno's body is a thing of beauty. Her face goes crimson. "Nothing!" she blurts, pressing herself against the wall. "Just...Tyler…"

Geno swings around to glare at Tyler, who just shrugs innocently. "Hey, all I'm guilty of is trying to make her look even prettier."

"Sid is always pretty!" Geno says, causing Sid's mulish expression to morph into something soft and affectionate. He catches the shift, his eyes crinkling and suddenly, they've all been catapulted into a Moment. Jack half expects woodland creatures to pop out and start singing.

"I think I need to change the date of my bet," Danielle says thoughtfully from inside the room.

"Tell Flower," Marcia replies.

Jack raises an eyebrow at Segs and mouths, " _Bet_?" Segs shakes her head minutely and mouths back, " _Later_."

Meanwhile, Sid and Geno are grinning dopily at one another, completely oblivious. Jack notes the number of guys watching the scene with delighted expressions, and decides to cut the whole thing short before someone ruins the moment by wolf-whistling or something. "Look, Sid," she begins. "You don't have to do what Segs did to me. Maybe just let her do one of those cat eye things, right Segs?"

Segs sighs dramatically. "I _suppose_ so."

Sid looks ready to make more protests, but she's derailed when Geno reaches out to touch her wrist. "It's different, but not bad, Sid," he says softly. "Maybe just try it once?"

Her eyes dart between Geno and Segs a few times before she finally relents. "Oh, fine. But if you poke me in the eye, Segs, it's all coming off." She flashes a small smile at Geno, murmurs good-bye, and pushes back into the room, with Segs skipping happily after her.

Jack rolls her eyes and turns to go back in - she still has to put her dress on - when her eye catches on Connor, just a few doors down. He's staring at her like he's never seen her before. Weird. She lifts her shoulder, a clear _what,_ and he flushes before nodding awkwardly and disappearing into his room. Even weirder.

Good thing they're going to be on different teams. There's been no communication since Edmonton, and she'd really like to keep it that way. It's not that she didn't have a good time - she felt loose for _days_ \- but she has absolutely no intention of repeating it.

 

Jack's been playing in the NHL for about half a season now, she's pretty sure she's had her fair share of "welcome to the NHL" moments. But still, it's one thing to hit the ice with, say, Pavel Datsyuk and another to be in a room _full_ of players of the same caliber, some of whom she's actually grown up watching.

Speaking of Datsyuk, he's at a table full of Russians, including Ovie and Geno. They seem to be getting louder with every passing second but she can't quite seem to stop staring. Then Stammer walks by and she stares after _him_. She feels like an idiot, but...

Thankfully, the draft starts soon after that, so she can just sit with Steph and Mallory and watch as the older players joke around and get progressively drunker.

"This is surreal," Steph mutters.

"Tell me about it," Mallory says, staring with wide eyes at Henrik Lundqvist.

Jack isn't sure if it's wilful ignorance or what, but Weber seems to turn a blind eye to Sid not-so-sneakily drafting all the women onto her team. Even Steph, who she was sure he was going to grab out of team solidarity.

Still, it's hilarious to see the hole Sid drills into Weber's skull as the rookie draft dwindles down.

"Our last pick for the draft is Jack Eichel," Sid announces, oozing with satisfaction. Jack exhales because while it was to be expected, it's still nice to be picked over Connor for something, even something like the All-Star draft. Also, the black Team Sid jerseys are pretty snazzy.

"I am ready to party!" Segs declares once the draft is over. Jack sighs, fully expecting to be hungover for the skills competition.

Or maybe not, because Sid comes up to her and says, "You're going to be the rookie on the breakaway challenge." Because of course she's already planned who's doing what, it's probably what she's been scribbling the entire time.

Forget drinking, she needs to come up with five boss trick shots for tomorrow. Which is why Jack goes up to Carey where she's chatting with PK and Mallory and asks, "How long do you think it will take you to teach me how to rope a goalie?"

PK beams so brightly Jack's surprised she's not blinded. "Pricey, Pricey you have to do it!" he begs.

Carey just glances at Jack, bemused. "Do you think I just carry rope in my luggage?"

"Of course not. I was thinking we can go and buy some?" They're in Nashville, so that means there have to be cowboys somewhere, right?

PK is all but dancing in place. Mallory crosses her eyes over his shoulder at Jack and mouths, " _We are so not related_." "I'll do it, I'll go buy the rope! Pricey you have to teach her!"

"You'd probably buy the wrong kind. And since you're so enthusiastic about the whole thing, we're going to use you for practice." Carey's already pulling her phone out. "I'm calling an Uber."

He pumps his fist in the air. "All _right!_ "

They practice roping PK in the hotel courtyard until the wee hours of the morning, much to the amusement of the hockey players going in and out (Jack ignores all the sad and crying emojis Segs sends her - it's not like they don't have multiple nights to party). Zemgus hides out with them, delightfully embarrassed that his countrymen have voted him in yet again. She wonders if Gio and Matt have told him to watch out for her, because he's very quick to fetch drinks and give her his suit jacket when the Nashville night starts edging towards too chilly. Connor hangs around for a time, too, before Ekblad pounces on him and drags him off to parts unknown.

The next day, the practice is more than worth it when she gets to rope Lundqvist and tap the puck in behind him. She throws him a broad wink when she does, grinning when he throws his head back and laughs. Marcia flashes her a thumbs-up when she skates back to the line, and all the women are whistling.

Segs reaches over and musses her hair. "Get it, girl. Except no, not really, but a little flirting never hurt anyone, right?"

Both Sid and Bennie blanch. " _Segs._ "

"Oh my god, it was a joke!" she complains, before turning back to Jack. "You owe me for bailing last night. Drinks. Tonight."

So of course, she's only slightly hungover the next day for the actual game. She would wear sunglasses in the locker room if Sid would let her, but as it is, Zemgus keeps handing her bottles of Gatorade, bless him.

Sid has no idea what the words _friendly competition_ mean, because the moment she hits the ice she goes 100 mph, forcing everyone else to speed up and join her. Luckily, the hug-checks from last year seem to be out in force again, because at the first possible moment Geno puts himself right in Sid's path and opens his arms wide. Sid snows him, of course, and he wraps his arms around her, allowing Stammer to pick up the puck and zoom towards Carey.

Jack is particularly taken aback when Ovie actually scoops her up and spins her around during her shift. "Baby Buffalo is so good!" he coos, setting her back down on her skates and skating off with a blown kiss.

"I am so sorry," Backstrom tells her when she gets back to the bench. He has the air of someone who is constantly apologizing for his linemate. "He's…"

"Ovechkin," Jack replies, shaking her head.

"If it makes you feel better, I think he's doing it to get a rise out of McDavid." He nods his head over to the opposing bench where sure enough, Connor is scowling at Ovie. What?

"His eyes never leave you when you're on the ice," Danielle observes from behind her. Her lips twitch up. "Do we need to start another betting pool?"

"Oh for f-"

Steph slaps a hand over her mouth. "I'm mic'd up, Eichs, watch your mouth," she says in an undertone.

Jack just fumes. The absolute last thing she needs are a bunch of gossipy hockey players betting over her and _Connor._ They're nothing like Sid and Geno.

Luckily, her next shift coincides with his and no one but Mallory is mic'd up. She skates in lazy circles around him, because like hell if she's going to do the hug-check. "Wanna tell me why you're trying to drill holes in Ovie's skull?" she drawls.

His eyes dart up to hers, startled, and she takes the opportunity to bat the puck away towards Segs, who takes off towards Bishop, whooping the entire way. "Not really," he mutters, edging away. Jack just lets him go because this is not something she really wants to investigate at all. Not to mention the fact that Sid is barreling towards her and she'd better get with the play or risk her captain's wrath.

They go out to celebrate beating Team Weber once more. Of course they do. That many women on one team kicking ass and taking names? She feels all the more giddy for it, shuffled along with one arm in Segs' vice grip and her other arm looped through Steph's.

Three smuggled tequila shots later, Jack is feeling no pain. She's probably making a damn fool of herself on the dance floor, but Steph and Mallory don't seem to care, not when they're flailing as badly as she is.

She is not even close to surprised when a contingent of Weber's team shows up at the same bar, headed by Geno. What she is kind of surprised about is that Connor is one of those trailing along behind Geno, Ekblad nowhere in sight.

"I need water!" Steph yells in a break between songs. "And I'll get Roman to buy another round of shots!"

Steph shoves her way to the bar and Jack sags against it, propping her elbows on the top as her eyes scan the crowd. She can pick out so many hockey players, and it makes her smile, makes her feel so good and so happy. There's Segs in Bennie's lap (honestly, what is Bennie waiting for, an engraved invitation?), and PK with his arm looped around Carey's shoulders (and if Carey can't see that maybe she's as blind as Sid). Her eyes keep skipping around, Zemgus, Lundqvist, Ovie, until they settle on Connor.

His hand is shoved in his pocket in the way that Sid does when she doesn't want to be touched - Christ, it's terrifying the way their little Canadian hearts seem to translate into terrifyingly mirroring habits - while his other hand is wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle he is way to young to have, not that anyone seems too keen on caring. He seems perfectly happy to chat away to Tazer and Hallsy (probably about hockey because honestly, what else does Tazer talk about and Hallsy, she knows from Nuge, has a terrifyingly deep knowledge of everyone else's stats) and Jack knows she needs to look away. She is too drunk for this to end in anything good.

Then he licks his lips and Jack's memory jolts.

_I can't get my mouth on you from there._

Oh.

Fuck.

She knows she can't. Well, she knows she _shouldn't_. Edmonton had been hate sex and a one-time thing because she cannot stand him. But her memory is also crystal clear when it comes to how his touch had felt, the look on his face when she'd pushed him a little bit more, a little bit harder. The frustration when she'd told him there was no way she was going to straddle his face.

She finds herself shuddering, her eyes flicking back up. He's watching her now, watching her watch him, looking caught and surprised.

It's stupid. It's dumb. It's suicide.

She hates him.

She tilts her head to the side towards the door. His eyes widen for a moment before she watches something amazing wash over his face.

Oh yes.

He's already outside when she stumbles into the Nashville night, surprised at how damn difficult it is to squirrel around their NHL sisterhood without admitting what she's about to do. She's trying not to think about it much more than she has to, aware that if she starts dissecting things she's going to back out and she _will not_ back out. She doesn't back out of anything.

He catches her elbow, not near as drunk as she is. It should be a warning in and of itself. "Eichs."

She pushes into him, kisses him. He makes a startled noise, but it's not a negative one and it doesn't take long for him to get with the program. His hands come up to her hips, one fisting in the fabric of her shirt. He lets her lead, the same way he had back in Edmonton, though maybe that had been a little more of her taking control. Whatever. That's so not the point.

The point is she's happy. They won, she's pleasantly drunk and she feels good. _He_ feels good the more she presses into him. She wants his mouth on her. It'll be a great cap to her amazing night and a pretty awesome first All Star Game.

"Let's go back to the hotel," she murmurs.

His hands, if anything, grip tighter but he shows no signs of hesitation. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

Luckily, it's a short walk back and Jack has the presence of mind to text Segs and Steph. _Hooking up, don't worry about me._ Segs responds almost immediately, with a thumbs-up and _USE PROTECTION._ Steph's makes her snort: _What?! How do you have that much game?_

They keep a fairly polite distance between them all the way from the bar to the elevator, though Jack can't help but notice the way Connor's fingers keep clenching and unclenching, like he wants to reach out for her. She likes the idea that he's just as hungry for it as she is. Still, he seems content to let her make the first move, even when they're finally closed up in his room.

"So," she says, kicks off her flats and reaches for her top. She spins as she tosses it on the other bed. Hallsy's bed. She's not going to think about that either. "You promised me your mouth this time."

The sound he makes in response is _wonderful_. "I don't remember any promises."

But his face says he's more than ready to go down on her for as long as she'd like. It's heady and sends heat pooling into her stomach. She deals with it by reaching for her bra, shucking it off. He's still standing there and this time she can't stop the moment of insecurity.

"Yo. Dude."

His eyes snap up to her face and okay, that's a bit gratifying. She laughs and it makes him growl, finally spurring him into closing the distance. She's loose enough from triumph and alcohol to make a noise that may have been a yelp - she will deny that to her grave - when he spreads a hand against the bottom of her spine and yanks her into him. Still, the noise she makes into his mouth right after is absolutely giddy. She opens beneath him, nips at his lip, and sucks at his tongue, enjoying the feel of him against her.

Jack arches into his hand when he cups it around a breast, tweaks her nipple just right. She hums in pleasure and slides her hands down to his ass, kneads and squeezes through his jeans. "Off. Why am I the only one half-naked?"

"There's nothing wrong with you half-naked," he retorts. "Except that you're not totally naked."

"Lame," she says, right into his mouth, but she's still smiling. "Come on. Strip."

The last time they'd done it had been quick and this time, Jack really looks. It's a good body, even objectively and she knows she can thank their jobs for that. It makes her hum, a jaunty little tune, the kind of thing she'd never do sober.

"On the bed," she demands. "Sit."

"I'm not a dog."

"Obedient like one," she snarks back when he does as she's asked. He's got a crack on the tip of his tongue, she can see it, but the moment she presses his knees apart and drops between them, his mouth pops open.

"Jack."

Her hands slide up his thighs as she makes a questioning noise, licking her lips as she eyes him, half hard in front of her.

"Hey, no, we said my mouth on you."

"And we will," she agrees, wrapping her hand around him. "In a minute."

Because now that she's here, now that the thought's in her head (head, ha, she is so drunk) it's the only thing she can think of. She wants to take him in and swallow him down, then he can eat her out for as long as he wants.

She shifts her hand, in part to listen to him groan and in part to give herself room to swipe her tongue up the length of him. She shifts her knees apart for leverage and wraps her mouth around the head. He groans, a low, beautiful sound that goes right through the part of her that maybe has a thing for the power dynamics here. She takes him in slowly, lets herself adjust to his size before pulling back and swirling her tongue around him. His hips hitch just a little, and she presses a palm to his stomach.

"Jack."

She hums and this time his hips really do jerk as the sound of it vibrates through him. She laughs, this breathy thing that has one of his hands clenching in the comforter for a moment. She sucks him down again, gets her rhythm going, flicks her eyes up to his where she can to see him watching her. It makes her shiver and she can feel herself getting wet.

Jesus.

"Jack," he says again and this time, reaches for her, tangling his finger tips in her hair.

She swats at his hands. "No."

He tugs instead, just gently, but she pulls away completely.

"Dude. You want me to keep going or not?"

He looks so torn, like now that she doesn't have his mouth on him he's remembering how much he wants to go down on her but there's no way in hell he wants her to stop either. She laughs and takes a moment to pull his hands from her hair. Kissing is one thing, but she cannot stand hands in her hair while she's giving head. "Come on, you're in your prime. You can go again," she taunts, and promptly swallows him down.

He chokes at the implication and she is really growing to love that noise. She swipes her tongue around him as best she can as she pulls off and reestablishes her rhythm. Now she's more determined than ever to get him off like this.

"Jack. _Jack_."

His thigh is so tense under her hand. She knows he's close and she pulls off with an obscene slurp. She doesn't swallow as a rule, no matter the mess it makes when she doesn't, so she jacks him a few more times and watches him come all over her hand and his stomach. She giggles when he flops back and tosses an arm over his eyes.

"Where the fuck did you learn that?"

She snorts. "A lady never kisses and tells."

He huffs, and she smacks his shin with a frown. She is too a lady, thank you very much. He lifts his arm a little to look down at her entirely nonplussed. "Get up here. Your turn."

Fuck yeah.

She uses his thighs to leverage herself up, braces her palms on the bed beside his hips. "In a minute. You're going to be gross when all that dries and I'm not cleaning you up."

Not with her mouth anyway. She heads to the bathroom and comes back with a handful of tissues, wipes his stomach clean. The moment she finishes, he sits up and reaches for her, tugging her in to straddle his lap before letting himself flop back. She laughs and he grins up at her, hands spanning her hips.

"Come on, come on," he urges. "I've been thinking about this for months."

It's the kind of confession that should freak her out, the idea that he's been thinking about her at all other than the way she plays hockey. Except, she's drunk and happy and who the fuck cares what he says so long as she gets to sit on his face? Certainly not her.

She grabs a pillow as she knee-walks up the bed, drops it on his face because she can. He only laughs and tucks it behind his head. He slides his hands up the back of her thighs to help her get situated, stroking her skin. The first touch of his tongue makes them both groan.

"Fuck, Jack, you're already wet."

She releases her breath in a harsh rush, head dropping forward where he's nosing into her, brushing against her clit before he spreads her legs a little wider and licks broadly up the middle of her. She bites on her lip even as her mouth curls up in a smile and she settles more completely against his mouth. He hums in response and the vibrations force a breathy little sound from her throat.

He teases her for longer than she'd like. Right when she's considering pinning his head down, he licks at her clit, slick and firm, then dances away again. Her breath shakes out of her on a moan.

"Fucking tease," she manages.

Connor just grips her thighs tighter, holds her still and steady, stiffens his tongue and fucks up into her. That makes her moan for real, a loud uninhibited noise he echoes right against her. It sends a shiver racing through her and her thighs tremble with it for a moment.

"Yes, yes, yes," she chants and she is so, so close, but it's not quite… "Fuck me. Your fingers." He taps them on her quads for a moment, draws gentle circles with them until she growls and grasps his hair hard. "Asshole."

He gives her two. The stretch takes her off-guard just a little. Her body jolts and she chokes on a noise as she arches. It frees him up to take her clit in his mouth, suck gently then harder when she gasps.

"Fuck- Fuck yes. Just right-"

He crooks his fingers and sucks her clit at the same time and she comes, clenching one hand on his shoulder and the other in his hair. He coaxes her through it then slides his fingers out, strokes his clean hand along the back of her thigh. She tumbles off him, sprawling inelegantly as she gulps in air. For a moment, the only sound in the room is their harsh breathing before he rolls and presses a slick, wet kiss to her hip.

"Again?"

And well fuck, she is not going to say no to that. "Get a condom."

She lets him do the work this time, idly reaches down to stroke herself. Yeah, she can go again.

She flashes him her very best smile when he finally looks up to find her touching herself. It's a good look on him, a little bit stunned and really, really turned on. "Jack."

He slips between her legs, braces himself on his forearms as he watches her stroke over her clit, the shiver it sends racing through her body. She reaches for him, takes him in hand and lines them up, arching her hips as he slides through the mess of his saliva and her come. He presses in slowly, so, so slowly, biting her shoulder when he's fully seated inside her.

"Fuck, Jack," he says into her skin. "So fucking hot."

She slings her legs over his hips, her arms around his neck. She rolls her hips leisurely and he makes a pained noise. "Can't take it there, McDavid?"

His body shudders, his eyes flying up to hers. He pulls out and thrusts back in, sharp and hard enough to send her up the comforter a bit. She gasps, mouth dropping open. He groans and bites at her lower lip, does it again and she gets the sense that he's doing it for the sounds she can't seem to keep herself from making. She tilts her head back, thrusts back against him.

"Yeah," he says, voice sounding wrecked and wonderful. "Come on, Jack. What do you need?"

She eels her hand between them and he groans and swears. Her fingers press against her clit, finding a rhythm with his thrusts that is just delicious and she rides the wave until she comes. She takes him with her, feels him give a few more erratic thrusts before he groans into her shoulder.

He kisses her cheek when he catches his breath, pulls out slowly but doesn't immediately move away. She hums a little. The heat of him feels good now that it's not pressed along every oversensitive inch of her.

"I have to go," she says, shivering when his hand strokes wonderfully down her side. She's definitely not ready for another round, but it does feel good. "Hallsy'll be back any minute."

"Not the first time he's found you naked in my bed."

She laughs so she doesn't freak out, gathers her wits so she can lever herself up. Her legs are a bit shaky, a bit rubbery, but damn if she doesn't feel good. That much she's more than happy to admit to herself, even if she will never own up to the fact that it's Connor that got her there.

She helps herself to the bathroom before she returns to the bedroom, pulls on her jeans and panties with an unselfconsciousness born of a good fucking and the residual alcohol in her blood. She's so loose she all but skips back over to him once she's dressed and presses a kiss to his swollen mouth.

"Good game."

He laughs and it's totally at her. "Good game. Jesus, Eichs, seriously?"

Jack pouts, because seriously? "What else am I supposed to say?"

"Thank you for the amazing orgasms?"

She snorts, smacks his shoulder. "In your dreams."

His hand comes back up, strokes her bare arm. "Well, yeah. Anyway, you can't say I didn't do my share of the work this time."

She rolls her eyes and pulls away again, slips into her flats and tosses a wink over her shoulder. She hears his laughter as she yanks open the door and comes face to face with a slightly swaying Hallsy. They blink at each other for a minute.

"Seriously?"

Jack reaches out with an exaggerated pout and pats his shoulder. "Not my fault you can't close the deal."

Hallsy growls. "They're in fucking Antigua without me, it is _not my fault_."

Jack just giggles and pats his shoulder again before she heads off pulling her phone out as she goes.

_Hallsy's feeling unloved,_ she types to Nuge.

It doesn't take long for her to respond. _Do you know what time it is, Eichs? Christ. Don't worry about Hallsy, we'll take care of him._

_Yeah you will._

_Go the fuck to sleep._

* * *

The thing is, Jack is really and honestly just _good_. She beat out everyone at the Combine when they thought it would be the McEichel show and she knows the Sabres front office agrees.

"I think we won the draft lottery," Tim told her during her draft interview.

She hadn't even grinned, just agreed mildly, "I think you did, too." She won the Beanpot. She beat out guys two, three years older than her for the Hobey Baker. Those kind of facts don't lie.

So. That isn't cockiness, it isn't narcissism, it's just flat out _fact_. Sure, she may have an enormous chip on her shoulder and she goes out on that ice every night feeling like she has something to prove, but beyond everything else, she is damn fucking good and she's doing amazingly well for her first season.

The Sabres, on the other hand, are not. It seems like no matter how fast she skates, no matter how many points she puts up on the board, they still manage to lose. And fine, fine, she knew she wasn't going to drag them to the playoffs by sheer force of will - she's good, but she's not Carey. But still.

And there's still a Calder on the line.

Then finally, the stars align and they pull out a win against the fucking _Rangers_ and Jack has a three point night, including a highlight-reel worthy goal. And that's all that really matters, because that's yet another losing streak snapped. Little things like being crushed against the boards by Kreider hard enough to hit her head can be swept aside, even if the resulting concussion testing is annoying.

She doesn't have a concussion, thank god.

But apparently it's enough of a scare that her phone is full of messages after the game. Which, she should have expected. Nine times out of ten, the sisterhood of NHL women freaks her the fuck out because she's never had that many "girlfriends" legitimately looking out for her well-being the same way Hanny always has, but it's come in handy before. A memorable game against St. Louis where they'd lost in a fucking shootout, but Sid's pregame text of _Watch out for Backes_ , had probably saved her at least a roughing penalty when he'd knocked her to her back on the ice and told her it was a good position for her.

Risto had taken exception, bless him, because it's not like she can't fight her own battles, even against someone like Backes, but Jack had made a note to send Sid a thank you after the game for the warning.

_Just keeping an eye out_ , Sid had replied.

Kreider, however, is not on the list. _I knew I didn't like him_ , Carey types. Marcia promises to give him a talking-to while Segs, Jordie, and Steph all vow to go after him in their next games and Jack grumbles as she answers that it's entirely unnecessary and she won't be putting out the sisterhood-wide warning. It was a good damn hit, even if it rang her bell a little. Her parents text her too, of course, and by the time she gets off the phone with them there's a text from a number she doesn't recognize.

_Good game. How's your head?_

She's not sure how long she stares at the message before Matt's nudging her side. "Everything all right, Jack?"

"Yeah, just…" Her brow furrows and she types back _who the hell is this?_

_Connor. McDavid. Nuge gave me your number._

Why does he want her number? And why is he watching her games? She rolls her eyes, fully intending to ignore him from here on out. But still, he did ask a question. _Head's fine._

_Good._

It doesn't stop there, though. He always has a comment after one of her games, which just adds to the suspicion that he's keeping tabs on her. It must be because he's back in the Calder race, despite being out for his injury. That's the only reason Jack can think of, anyway.

She ends up asking Matt what he thinks of the whole thing and his face goes thoughtful before he shrugs. "Maybe he just wants to be friends."

"But _why_?" It's on the tip of her tongue to blurt out that all they've done is bang - hell, they've barely had a full conversation. Somehow she thinks Matt won't appreciate that information. He's so delightfully overprotective of her when the team goes out after games.

"I know, it's not like you're a paragon of virtue…" he muses.

Jack throws a pillow at him. "You shut up, I'm a fucking _delight_."

His smile softens. "You actually are, so why are you surprised?"

"Well, I-" She gives up, stumped.

Matt ruffles her hair. "Just go with it."

If "go with it" means "don't ignore Connor's texts," then...she can probably do that.

So she sends a, _Feels good to get Philly back, huh?_ after they take the win at the Wells Fargo Center. Because no matter how much he's avoided the topic, there _has_ to be some bad blood there.

_Yeah. It kind of did._

 


	2. Chapter 2

When the NHL awards come around, Jack is actually kind of giddy. Her mind is a mess over the whole part where she’s just played her first full season in the NHL and the fact that she did not shit the bed. Actually, by all accounts, it’s been a Calder-worthy season, even if she didn’t manage to help the Sabres to the playoffs.

This time, she doesn’t even put up a fuss when Segs shows up at the door to her hotel room to drag her out shopping for a dress that’s too damn expensive, not to mention apply more makeup than she’s ever worn in her _life_. She can’t care, not when she’s actually being recognized for her accomplishments. Not that she’s cocky enough to say the Calder is a sure thing, but she’s definitely feeling pretty amazing about her chances.

The high buoys her through the press line, so much so that she doesn’t even mind how many questions are thrown at her about her versus Connor for the Calder.

She doesn’t mean to catch his eyes, but when she does, his face absolutely transforms. It send a shiver drilling down her spine, leaves her feeling a little dizzy. It’s the same look he’d given her back during the All-Star weekend, filled with a whole lot of shit she doesn’t understand.

Cabbie breaks the moment by pulling both of them into an interview. It’s not bad, between his media platitudes and her good-natured chirping. It’s actually comfortably easy and serves to keep her upbeat.

From there, it just seems natural for the two of them to move into the cocktail reception area together, nodding and waving at the people they know.

“You uh.” She arches an eyebrow when his Adam’s apple bobs. His hands are back in his pockets. It swirls in her stomach a little, because she’s seen that look before and she can’t figure out why it looks like he wants to just touch her. She knows the cameras are flashing, knows that this is going to be everywhere tomorrow and still can’t make herself look away. “You look good.”

It’s a compliment that feels more like a punch. Still, she forces herself to preen a little. “Of course I do.”

He looks good too, when his suit’s not covered in the ridiculous colours Edmonton favours. She’s also digging the slight hint of ginger stubble he’s got going on. She opens her mouth to say so, but then Segs and her family descend upon them and the moment is broken.

She barely pays attention to the other awards, and only has eyes and ears for when Sid steps up to the mic to present the Calder. She waves at the camera, anticipation humming throughout her body…

“And the Calder goes to...Connor McDavid,” Sid says into the mic with a smile.

It’s only her mother’s grip on her hand that stops her from completely freezing. Somehow, she manages to paste a smile on her face and clap, albeit somewhat mechanically. _It should have been me it should have been me it should have been me_ is a constant buzz in her ears well into Connor’s speech.

“My fellow nominees, you guys put up a good fight.” There’s a titter of laughter. Jack is so far from amused. But then his eyes meet hers and hold as he says, “You deserve this way more than I do.”

And she just can’t.

She closes her eyes, looks away, doesn’t hear the rest of his speech or the two or three awards after. At her first chance, she escapes. It’s not cowardly or childish. It’s not. She just…she needs a minute. She’s allowed a minute to lament yet another thing she’s lost out on because of Connor fucking McDavid.

Her eyes water as she strides through the hotel, grateful for the millionth time she hadn’t given in to Segs’ bitching about her choice of flats over heels. She bites her cheek against the tears, aware that Segs will murder her for ruining her makeup over something like a fucking NHL award.

But it’s just…

Jack knows she worked her ass off. She’s always worked her ass off. The minute she’d decided on hockey, very little could derail her. Sure, she’d chosen to go the NCAA route, but it was only a year, a single year where she had to balance a college course load with her intense training and _dammit_ that Calder was _hers_. She’d proven herself, over and over again...

The worst part is she can’t even blame Connor. Not really. It’s not his fault that this time, this one time, she just wasn’t good enough.

The bathroom door slams against the wall as she pushes through it. She bows her head, bracing her hands against the sink. _It’s just one year_ , she tells herself. She’ll just keep pushing herself harder, as she always does, and she’ll come back bigger and better next year.

She sucks in a deep breath, methodically washes her hands even though she doesn’t need to and meets her own eyes in the mirror.

She is Jack fucking Eichel.

She can do this.

Her mother leans over when she gets back to her seat. “Everything okay, honey?”

Jack forces on a smile but lets her mother take her hand again, squeeze tight. “Great.”

 

He finds her in the crowd during the afterparty. She’s been wearing her ‘do not touch’ cloak and she’s been mostly left alone because of it, sticking with her mom and sister, then Segs and the girls. Jack feels like she's supposed to be more surprised by it, and by the way he completely ignores her cold shoulder. If there’s anyone who would ignore all of her signs and signals that she is not a good person to socialize with tonight, it’s him. She’s actually kind of prepared for it.

He cocks his head to the side when he catches her gaze, the implicit question. _Follow me?_ She wants to say no. God, she wants to say no. She wants to tell him to go fuck himself or go fuck his goddamn Calder. But there's a voice in her head that sounds suspiciously like Segs that has her making her excuses to the girls instead.

His hands are shoved awkwardly in his pockets when they make it out to the patio, not that Jack minds. She wraps both of hers over the stem of her champagne flute, shivers a little at the temperature difference between the air conditioning and the humid Vegas night.

Connor turns at the edge of the patio stones, right where it turns into grass. His face is surprisingly unhappy considering he’s the rookie of the year. "You deserved that Calder."

This is not the conversation she’d expected, despite the fact he’d implied as much in his acceptance speech. Some platitudes maybe, but he looks genuinely upset with the outcome of these awards. "Thanks?"

He huffs, actually scuffs his toe on the ground and Jack gets the sense that there’s something important she’s missing here. There's a hum around him, one that wraps around her, pulls her in. She can see it now that she's not preparing herself for apologies or conciliatory statements; now that she’s not holding herself aloof. It makes her want to reach for him, so she clenches her hands tighter around her drink. She has no idea what's coming next, not until he raises his head again and she recognizes the heat in his eyes.

_Yes_.

His shoulders straighten, sure and confident in a way she's only seen him on the ice and like this, sure of her in ways that are terrifying and confusing. It's a look she recognizes for more than just the attraction and arousal, though she couldn't say where from.

"Want to get out of here?"

She nods.

She follows him to the elevators. The hum between them intensifies the further from the party they go, not the fueling anger that had been their first time, nor the drunken triumph that had been their second. This is quiet, steady. She should be afraid of it. There are alarm bells going off in her head and everything. But when the elevator doors ding open, Connor offers his hand - of all things - and Jack sets her champagne flute on the nearby decorative table to slide her palm into his.

This is Vegas and not a damn movie, so she’s honestly surprised when no one else follows them into the car. Connor uses her hand to tug her closer, into him, where he can slip his hand from his pocket to her cheek. The kiss is light and easy, gentle brushes of his mouth against hers, a tease, a test. But it’s the comfort that sizzles through her she knows she should be wary of, the easy way her hand comes up to clench on the lapel of his suit jacket.

The tension in her shoulders, the twisted grief that had followed her loss of the Calder, dissipates with every brush of his mouth over hers. He doesn’t release her hand, but tucks it up between them, against his chest. His fingers thread into her hair, dislodging some of the pins in her low curling bun. He murmurs something unintelligible and unimportant into her mouth, leaves her sighing when the cool air brushes over them until he comes back to her, no harder, no more demanding than their previous kisses, but all the more lovely for it.

The elevator pulls them apart again and he offers her a smile that shakes around the edges. She can’t for the life of her figure out why it would.

Jack registers how nice it is, the feel of her hand in his as he leads her down the hall. His hand is big: broad palms, long fingers and hockey callouses and while she’ll never say it out loud, she still uses her memories of those hands when she gets herself off. He doesn’t stumble through putting the key in the lock, doesn’t trip over his own feet as he guides her inside. He turns to kiss her again, backs her up against the door. The kisses are lazy, trailing from her mouth to her cheek, where he laughs just a little.

“What?”

His expression is a bit wry when he pulls back. “I, uh. Expected you to be taller than me. This time.”

It takes her a minute to parse through that and she snorts and smacks his shoulder. “I’m pretty sure my dislike for heels is as famous as Sid’s hatred for all things formal.”

He shrugs and she tries for the millionth time not to find it endearing. His hand is stroking up and down her bare arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake. His mouth is twitching like he wants to grin but he presses it into hers instead, tries to slide his hand back into her hair. He’s thwarted, once again, by the pins holding her hair in place and he makes an impatient noise.

“Come here.”

Instead of taking her to bed, he takes her to the bathroom, flicking on the bright lights until they’re both illuminated in the massive mirror. “What the hell-”

Connor’s hands delve into her hair, searching out pins with gentle fingers. She inhales sharply and his hands pause, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror.

“Sorry, I-”

“No.” Her hands clench on the counter reflexively. “It’s…” Jack swallows, surprised by how much she wants to let him do this. “It’s okay.”

She tries to hold completely still as he hunts down the pins in her hair, sighing as the tension releases out of her neck. There’s more here too, that humming under her skin from the elevator. There’s a banked heat circuiting between them. Sex is coming, they both know it, neither of them doubt it but they’re not in a rush either. No one knows they’re gone and if they do, Jack isn’t sure they’d care.

“There must be thirty pins there,” he murmurs as he gathers the fluffy mess in his hands. Her head bobs, moves as he tilts it to the side so he can press his mouth to her neck. She gasps, unprepared and her eyes flutter when he slides his palm over her stomach. “It’s kind of a mess,” he says into her shoulder. “Did you uh… want to shower first or anything?”

She blinks at him in the mirror because this is a level of courtesy that’s throwing her more than a bit. “Are you saying I stink?”

He blushes but shrugs, and she feels the whole movement of his chest against her back. “Just… hairspray.”

She gives him the benefit of a wrinkled nose. “It’s so gross...but it doesn’t matter. It’s going to get messed up in a minute anyway.”

The smile slides right off his face into this strange version of frustration and arousal, something that makes her stomach flip in too many good ways. She knows there’s something different going on here, she’s not immune to the feeling, but seriously.

Except then he’s turning her around, letting go of her hair to press her gently into the counter. She arches an eyebrow and shifts, ready to lift herself onto it, but Connor keeps his grip strong on her hips.

“I know we’re not…” He huffs and glances away and something in Jack’s chest twists painfully. “But I also know what the Calder means to you. What it would have meant to you.”

He doesn’t. He really doesn’t, and it all hitches in her chest again. “I already know this is a pity fuck okay so can we-”

“Jack.”

The tone catches her, holds her fast. She’d known he’d been a captain, of course, but it’s never come up, never come out with her. Until now.

“Let me do this, okay? Just… just let me do this.”

She thinks for a minute he’s still talking about the sex until he strides to the shower and turns it on. Her knees lock up and she’s glad for it, sure she’d be a heap on the floor otherwise because apparently it’s her night to feel all sorts of stupid and embarrassing things.

He comes back to her, a little awkward, a little nervous. His fingertips brush over her hips and up her sides, over the fabric of her dress. He rubs at her last rib, round and round in soothing circles. His gaze darts down and for a minute she feels a bit satisfied, the short zing of arousal because her neckline is low and the slit of her dress is high… but nothing comes. He swallows and looks back up at her, face so fucking earnest.

“Take your time, okay?”

She nods because she doesn’t know what else to do. She’s pretty sure he’s not supposed to be able to do this to her, that she’s not supposed to let him, but he’s not wrong. The hairspray feels like shit in her hair and her makeup is starting to feel like it’s surgically attached to her face.

She hears him come back briefly once she’s in the shower, smirks a little to herself, but the door never opens. He never joins her. She can see his silhouette shuffle about, lift her dress off the floor and she swallows, twice, to get around the ball that forms in her throat. She’s not…she’s not going to fucking break. She’s just feeling a little shaky.

It’s better once she’s chiseled her makeup off - and yeah okay Segs had whined about the merits of waterproof over not but Jack is so, so glad she’d put her foot down - and washed her hair twice because hairspray is a bitch. She wrings it out as best she can, leaves it in ropes hanging just below her shoulders and wraps a towel around her body.

The television’s on when she emerges, and her eye catches her dress draped carefully over the chair by the window. But Connor is watching her, clad only in his boxer-briefs, the drapes drawn to block out the bright lights of Vegas. The only light is coming from the TV and the bedside lamp, and Jack shivers with a hybrid of feeling that leaves her too vulnerable.

“Hey.”

He climbs off the bed as she echoes his greeting, wraps her up in his arms so easily, like this is something they do every day. Except it’s not and it never will be and there are feelings in her chest that she can’t get her head around, so she tilts her head back and sighs with satisfaction when he takes the hint.

This she can do.

His mouth moves over hers with dedication and thoroughness, exploring every inch, every crevasse and she’s helpless to do anything but slip her arms around his bare waist. Without the grip of her arms or her hands, her towel falls to the floor with a quiet thud. She expects him to pull back then, to look his fill, but he keeps kissing her, over and over again, changing the pressure, the angle, until she’s making little noises into his mouth.

Only then does he pull away, his eyes locked on hers as they flutter open. He brushes his hands over her shoulders, down her arms, back up her hips and torso, the movements slow and liquid. His eyes can’t stop moving, like he can’t get enough of just looking at her. There’s something stunned in his face and a lump forms in her throat.

“Got a plan here?” she asks, because this is intense, too intense. But her voice quiet and soft, not at all cocky or demanding like she’d wanted.

“If you’re up to it,” he murmurs back, finally leans in to kiss her cheek. His mouth trails along her skin until he can nip at her ear and she gasps, pressing into him reflexively. His hands drift down her sides until he’s cupping her ass, kneads and squeezes “Come on.”

Connor kisses her as he starts backwards, guides her slowly. He sits on the bed when his legs brush against it, pressing kisses to her stomach and sternum as he guides her into his lap. Jack’s world is going more than a little hazy around the edges as he touches her, as she lets him touch her. It’s always hot between them, demanding and maybe a bit rough but not now. This is different, weighted.

She feels safe here. She feels steadied. She feels like there’s no mask she has to put on to make him think anything more or less of her. He thinks she deserved the Calder and in Jack’s mind, it’s about the highest compliment he could have paid her. But more than that: she believes him when he says it. She’s not sure of this, of what they’re doing, of what it means and she’s pointedly not thinking about it, but she knows for a fact there’s never been discernable artifice in Connor McDavid.

His mouth trails down her throat, deliberately scraping his teeth over the junction of her neck and shoulder just to watch her shiver. His hands stroke over her back, hot and so big but not pushy, not pushing, like he’s happy to just sit here with her on his lap, making out like the teenagers they are, like she’s not already wet and like he’s not rock hard. She makes a disgruntled noise when he pulls away and he chuckles, leaning in to press a kiss between her breasts.

“I have a plan, remember?”

She should chirp back, she knows she should, but she’s distracted by the way he’s shoving his boxers down and shifting back on the bed. He holds out a hand to her and Jack takes it, moves to straddle him. He catches her hip and pushes, tumbling to her back beside him with a yelp. Jack opens her mouth to give him shit because what the actual fuck? Except he tucks himself up against her back, wraps one arm around her hip and slips the other under her to cup her breast. This way, she’s completely surrounded.

He presses little kisses against the back of her shoulder, finds a deliciously sensitive spot along her shoulder blade that has her arching into the hand stroking over her breast. It’s a dual assault that she can’t process. She barely knows what to do with her hands, feels one clenching in the sheets of the bed. He pants into her shoulder when her hips rock, as her ass pushes back, rubs against his cock. His fingers dance up over her hip, down her arm until he’s threading their fingers together.

Her breath catches as he drags her hand over her stomach, makes a pleased noise when she lifts her thigh, opens herself up for him. For them, because he doesn’t let go of her hand. Instead, he uses the way they’re tangled together to brush through the heat of her, gathering her slick on both of their fingers, soft and teasing. It’s the kind of touch she allows herself when she has the time, not the kind of touch she ever lets someone else use.

Connor, however, is just as stubborn as she is, presses their hands to her thigh when she tries to speed him up until she settles again, then starts from the beginning.

“Christ, you asshole...”

He pulls their hands away completely, curls them up until she knits her messy fingers in his hair. “I told you to let me.”

She yanks at him in retaliation but he’s already lifting her thigh again, curving her knee back over his and wedging his thigh between hers. She’s shaking so hard at how exposed she is, his head buried in her neck. He strokes back over her, dipping his fingertips into her. He slips them all along her, avoiding her clit as he strokes and plays. It’s everything she loves, all of the things that make her moan and shiver and curl her fingers tighter in his hair.

“Harder, fuck.”

He murmurs into her shoulder again, something that sounds suspiciously like ‘trust me’, but starts slow circles around her clit. His fingers on her breast echo it, a tease that’s only incrementally more intense than just his fingers between her legs. It’s not much better and she starts rocking against his fingers, presses her back against his cock with every backwards stroke.

He growls and she gasps when he plasters himself along her back and finally, _finally_ gives her two fingers. He knows exactly how to curve them, and she moans. His palm presses wonderfully against her clit but it’s still too slow, still not enough. He builds her up, his speed only incrementally faster with every sound she makes, more and more desperate.  

When her first orgasm rolls over her it’s in waves and waves. He draws it out with the gentle movement of his fingers inside her, soft kisses to her shoulders his palm pressed against her sternum.

“Jack.”

It’s breathless and full of so many things Jack refuses to identify, not tonight, not like this. She’s mature enough to know she’s running on emotion, that this is driven by more than the familiarity that is all tied up with him. She knows she can’t trust herself here. So she rolls to her back, trusts him to get the hint and he does, sliding between her thighs a moment later, condom already in place.

“Yeah?” he asks and she likes that he does, that despite the fact that she was a sure thing the minute she chose to talk to him tonight he’s still asking, still making sure. She blinks up at him, has to swallow around the lump in her throat because there isn’t an ounce of pity in his gaze. There’s no sympathy either. It’s the same look he’d given her earlier, the one she couldn’t place and still can’t now.

She reaches for him, tangles her fingers at his nape, lets her hands curl gently around his neck. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t waste time getting inside her now that he has her explicit permission. He presses her hips to the bed, lines himself up just right and slides in, one long, delicious push that leaves her thighs shaking, her mind a whirl of colours and sensations.

And she will blame that as the reason the next thing she breathes out is, “ _Connor_.”

He goes stiff above her for a moment before something hot and fierce flares over his face. He releases a desperate noise, leans down to take her mouth. It’s the first kiss that’s like their old ones, rough and biting, a battle until they can’t breathe. He rests his forehead against hers when he pulls away. It’s a move she normally finds uncomfortable and intimate but with the way he’s still pressed against her, the minute little thrusts of his hips, she doesn’t care.

“Say it again.”

“What?” she asks breathlessly, arches and digs her nails into his ass to get him to _move_. He holds still and steady.

“My name,” he says and maybe there’s a little flush in his cheeks. “Say it again, Jack.”

“Move,” she retorts instead, circles her hips. His jaw clenches, she can see the tension in his muscles but he holds steady.

“Say. It. Again.”

There’s a relief tied up in this now. It feels normal, the challenge that rises up in her despite the gentle way her hands trace over his back. Her mouth tilts up in a smirk and she gives him the only possible answer.

“Make me.”

His head drops to her shoulder with a groan and she bites her lip against the triumphant laughter that wants to burst from her. The somber mood dissipates and the grip his hand has on her hip is already tight, already so close to bruising.

This is going to be amazing.

He moves as slow as he can make himself, forces her to feel every inch of him pulling out and pushing back in, every deep, hard roll of his hips that would shove her up the bed if it weren’t for the way his hand holds her neck. It’s a good strategy, she manages to think through the fog of how big he is inside her, how good the stretch feels, but like hell if she’s going to just lay back and take it.  

She clenches around him, letting out a breathless chuckle when his eyes flutter shut and his movements stutter. “ _Jack,_ ” he growls, low and every inch a threat. This time she laughs for real, bright and pleased.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she breathes out, trying for innocent and failing spectacularly. “Was I supposed to be doing something else?” He bites at shoulder, her collarbone, every inch of skin he can reach as he slows his hips even more. She has to pick up the rhythm to keep it where she wants, rolling her hips and digging her nails into his shoulder blades. “Come on, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

He laughs but it’s kind of more like a huff into her shoulder. “You’re killing me.”

She squeezes around him again just to feel his fingers dig into her hip. “Kind of the point here, asshole.”

His hand slips up her neck, curls into her hair. He tugs, hard enough that she feels it and her neck arches reflexively. His hips finally catch a rhythm that really works for her as he leaves wet kisses along the line of her throat. She has to bite down on her tongue because she can feel the way his name is rising up in her throat, desperate, almost begging. The angle is so close, so close to right, and she just needs… “Please.”

He raises his head, and the satisfied glint in his eyes should not get her but it absolutely does. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, teasing. “What was that?”

No. No. Jack won’t give in, she _refuses_ to. “More. Please.”

The hum he makes is so fucking smug and after she comes, she’s going to kill him, she swears. “Whatever you want, Jack. All you have to do is say it.”

“Like _hell_ ,” she snarls, dragging her nails sharply down his back. She’s done letting him dictate when she comes. She drags him down against her, sinking her teeth into the juncture between neck and shoulder, grinding her hips up into his in vicious circles. If he’s not going to bring them over, then she will.

Her orgasm rips through her, heat spreading from her gut, sharp and sweet and delicious. Jack shudders, going limp underneath him, but she can feel from the tightness in his muscles that he’s right behind her-

One thrust, then two, and Connor lets out a strangled moan, the threads of sound lost in the wet tangle of her hair. For a moment, all they can do is drag in ragged breaths, refusing to move a single inch.

Afterwards, he curls around her again like a goddamn octopus, burying his face in her hair. She really should be getting back to her room but leaving doesn’t exactly appeal right now. He feels good curled against her back, even though they’re sweaty and sticky.

Eventually his breathing evens out and her eyes flutter closed, her breathing matching his. She can handle a short nap, probably.

“I want this more than I should,” he mutters into her hair. It takes everything in her not to freeze up because she thought he was asleep. Evidently he thinks she is, too. “I just...every time. I want you more and more and…”

Oh. Oh fuck. She is absolutely not prepared for this.

“I have no defense for this,” he says in an eerie echo of her thoughts. “For you. Because every time I think I know how it’s going to go, you do something else.” He snorts. “You drive me _crazy._ ”

Every instinct in her screams to run out the door and never look back but she can’t _move._ She can’t _think._ She’s lucky she’s still _breathing._

This can’t be happening. He can’t be confessing to actually having feelings for her. That’s not how this works. That’s not how _she_ works.

His lips press softly to her shoulder. “I just...I want you to give me a chance, Jack.” His words slur just the tiniest bit, and finally, finally, he relaxes around her.

She really should go. This is not something she’s equipped to deal with, not after everything that’s happened tonight. For the first time, it dawns on Jack that she’s in way over her head and she has no idea what the hell to do. It’s one thing to mess around, but it’s another thing to mess with feelings. _Hearts._ And while she might be a bitch when it comes to everything related to Connor McDavid, she’s not heartless.

Jack lies there, lost and hopelessly adrift, until exhaustion finally claims her.

 

She wakes up slowly the next morning and stretches languidly for a moment. When her body protests, her mind startles awake and everything rushes back in vivid technicolour. The awards, the disappointment and then…

Connor.

He’s not beside her, thank god. Cuddling last night had been bad enough for so very many reasons. She’s sure she wouldn’t have been able to take that, not now. She feels shaky as she thinks about it, can’t even get a good grip on the sheets to toss them from her body. The air current catches a piece of hotel stationary on the bedside table and Jack’s breath hitches as she reaches over for it.

_Morning Jack,_  
_Figured I’d save us both the questions and run interference._  
_Still think you deserved the Calder.  
_ _See you at the World Cup._

It’s signed with a simple _C_ , completely inconspicuous and innocent. The consideration still seems to floor her, all the more given his confession. Feelings. God. He has… feelings and it’s just… it’s not in the cards for her. Not with him. Never with him, no matter how sweet he is, how considerate of who she is, what she’s done, what she fights for every time she steps out on that ice. She fidgets with the page for a moment, folds a corner down and back, down and back.

She sucks in a breath and decides she can be the bigger person. It’s not like their paths are going to cross over the next few months. She doesn’t have to deal with this. And contrary to what more than a few people have said, she can be nice. So, she climbs from the bed, reaches for the nearest piece of clothing to ward off the hotel room air conditioning. She pads to where he’s draped her dress over the arm chair, the purse he’s laid neatly beside it.

Her phone is one of the few things she’d shoved in the little bag and she pulls up her messages, then his number. Her hands pause over the keys and she types about three or four different versions of the message before she finally settles on, _Thank you_.

_You’re welcome_.

The message comes back immediately and she feels her mouth twitch up in a little smile. She shakes her head with a strange amount of fondness as she pads back to the bed. She curls up on the mattress, lets herself bury her head in the pillow. It’s the summer. It’s the awards. She can sleep in a bit.

At least that’s her plan until her phone chimes happily. _Drink some water_. _And get out of my room or I’m sending Nuge._

She frowns. _Fuck you. And I was stone cold sober, asshole_.

The three little dots pop up at the bottom of their message window, and a second later: _That’s better_.

Jack laughs and something comes a little loose in her chest. It’s just so fucking normal and she’s so fucking grateful for it. She sighs and eyes her dress again, then the t-shirt she’s pulled on. It’s the gross orange of the Oilers and it’s tight in the shoulders, but the idea of putting her dress back on is just utterly repulsive.

She considers the pile of clothing he’s left on the other bed (honestly, _men_ ) and weighs her options. They’re all fucking Oilers colours and from the looks of it, at least eighty percent of that pile is emblazoned with either Connor’s name or number. She rolls her eyes. Even she doesn’t have that amount of monogrammed sports stuff and she actually likes the Buffalo colours.

Still, she’s not walking out of his room with his name and number advertised on her back. She shrugs and turns the t-shirt inside out because hey, it’s Vegas. People have seen weirder. It’s a struggle getting a pair of his sweatpants over her thighs and ass, and they end up looking more like leggings but whatever. There will be no walk of shame for her this morning, thank you very much.

At least, she thinks so, right up until she gets to her room and the neighboring door swings open. “Eichs?” Segs demands, and lord, she’s definitely rocking the sex hair. “Where the hell have you been???” Then she takes in the inside-out orange t-shirt and the plastic bag with all her stuff from last night. “Oh my _god._ Inside. _Now._ ”

“You better feed me,” Jack grumbles, complying.

“You’re wearing Oilers colours,” Segs retorts unsympathetically as she lets the door swing closed behind them. “I’m not sure you’re allowed to put conditions on this interrogation.”

Still, she orders waffles and Jack really can’t hold a grudge in the face of waffles.

* * *

 

Despite everything returning to normal after the awards, Jack walks around with a twitch under her skin. The number of messages on her phone from Connor rival the ones she gets from Hanny, Segs, and the bitchy ones from Marns that make her feel warm and fuzzy on the inside.

Connor sends her random things, like of him playing ball hockey in Mississauga with the Stromes, fishing at some lake because he’s so goddamn _Canadian_ , and random Edmonton gossip.

_They’re so weird._

Jack blinks at her phone. _You’re so weird._

_I’m pretty sure no three adults are supposed to spend this much time together without getting naked._

Jack rolls her eyes, caught up now. For reasons she will never understand, Connor is obsessed with Hallsy, Ebs and Nuge’s relationship. _Oh my god, seriously, it’s not a big deal._

_Stromer’s sure they’re sleeping together._

_Right, because *Stromer*_ _is the right person to be picking apart your teammates’ relationship._

_THREESOME EICHS._

“Hey. Pay attention to me.”

Jack looks up at Hanny and offers her brightest grin. “I’m always paying attention to you. Didn’t you see Deadspin? I made the trek all the way down to Carolina, so you and I must really be boning after all.”

Still, she types out, _It’s called polyamory, dipshit,_ because Jack can’t honestly say Hallsy, Ebs and Nuge have been all that secretive about it. Connor’s just kind of oblivious.

Then she tucks her phone into her pocket and crawls into Hanny’s lap because he’s pouting. “See?” she asks. “This is me, paying attention to you.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, trying to shift her around. “Are you already packing on more muscle? And since when are you so attached to your phone?”

“Those are both dumb questions, so I refuse to answer.”

Her phone buzzes between them and Hanny digs for it, his eyebrows arching so high they almost disappear into his hairline. “I’m rephrasing my question: since when are you texting Davo?”

Jack glances at the screen. _I HAD TO LOOK THAT UP JACK, ARE YOU SERIOUS? ANSWER ME!_ “Dude’s been texting _me_ , Hanny,” she hedges, hoping he’ll drop the subject, but she should know better. It’s _Hanny._

“Jack.” His voice is soft, and a little confused. “I thought you hated him with the fire of ten thousand suns.”

She means to say, “I do,” she really, really does. Instead, her brain betrays her and she blurts out, “I don’t.”

Hanny’s eyes widen and he sits up straight, nearly dumping her on the floor. “Shit, Jack,” he says over her cursing. “You’ve been acting like you hated him for years, but that’s not really it, is it? Do you like him?”

_No_ is on the tip of her tongue. But then she remembers the NHL Awards and whispers in the dark. Of hands sliding over her like she’s something to be cherished. She glances up at Hanny and shrugs, for once at a loss for words.

Luckily, Hanny has never needed words, not from her at least. “Shit, Jack.”

“Yeah,” she mumbles. “Shit.”

“Is this something we need to talk about?” he asks, concerned.

Alarm bells go off in her head. “Why would we need to talk about it? I don’t hate him anymore, hurray! You should be happy Hanny, this is what you’ve been pushing for right?” She slides off his lap, curling into a defensive ball.

Hanny sighs, rubbing at his chin thoughtfully. He’s trying to pull an Ekblad by growing his facial hair out, and it’s a good look for him but then again, almost anything looks good on him, damn it. Jack’s pretty confident about her own looks, but even her confidence sometimes wavers when faced with his prettiness.  “Believe me, Jack, I’m ecstatic over that. But I also know you,” he continues. “And you wouldn’t be acting like this if something wasn’t up. So what is it? Are you two secret lovers or something?”

He clearly means it as a joke, but Jack’s face flames bright red anyway and his eyes widen. “Shit. Shit, Jack, I was _joking!_ You’re actually-?”

“It’s just booty calls, Hanny, honestly. It means nothing.” _Lies, all lies!_ she thinks, remembering Connor’s confession. She thinks about it more than she would like to admit.

“To _you_ , maybe, but-” He cuts himself off and shakes his head. “Look, just be careful, all right? Davo’s always had this little thing for you and-”

Christ. He’s had a _thing_ for her? Just what has she been missing here? But no, Jack already decided she wasn’t going to step all over him because of it. So she just...lets it go. “Relax. I’m not going to break his heart, Hanny.” She reaches over to the coffee table and tosses him one of the controllers. “I can’t say the same about you, though, when I whoop your ass at _Call of Duty_.”

He sends her a skeptical look, then shrugs. “You’re on.”

* * *

“Jack?”

Jack just barely refrains from making an “of all the gin joints in the world” kind of crack because she definitely was not expecting to see Sid and Geno in the middle of what looks like a cozy dinner. But then, it’s Toronto, just a few days before team practices for the World Cup. “Oh, hey Sid. Hey Geno.”

Sid’s forehead wrinkles. “Are you here by yourself?” She cranes her head around as if she’s expecting someone else, like maybe someone from the Girl Brigade.

“Yeah. My family is pretty tired from a day of being touristy and I-” She shrugs a little helplessly. She’s felt out of sorts, kind of adrift all day, so she thought a drink would settle her nerves. And since she actually gets _recognized_ now, she’d picked somewhere a little more upscale and private.

Geno stands and motions to the hostess who’d been guiding Jack to the bar. “Come, join us.”

“No, I couldn’t, I’m interrupting-”

“Finished with dinner,” he says kindly, his eyes crinkling around the corners. “Drink with me, since Sid is so bad with alcohol.”

“Hey,” Sid protests, but there’s no heat to it. Despite herself, Jack takes the offered seat because while she definitely does not want to be the third wheel here, drinking by herself is definitely the more pathetic option.

It ends up being nicer than she thinks, with lots of good-natured chirping about each team’s chances for the Cup. Geno shows her some pictures of his break in Russia, and that guy really just needs to start a wildlife sanctuary someday because he has an alarming number of pictures with lions and tigers and bears (oh my).

Geno’s face lights up at the suggestion, while Sid drops her face into her hands with a groan. “Don’t encourage him!”

“Baby Buffalo has the _best_ idea!” he says delightedly, reaching over to muss her hair. Jack makes a face because what is it with Russians calling her Baby Buffalo?

“Just don’t expect me to come visit,” Jack grumbles. “Wild animals. Jesus.” She ignores the exaggerated sad face Geno makes at her in favor of downing the vodka he insisted on ordering.

Something keeps niggling at her though, something about the way Sid and Geno interact with one another, but it keeps slipping just out of reach.

They’re standing outside saying their goodbyes when it hits her. She watches Geno reach out for Sid, an absent touch to her elbow, but it’s the look on his face that really catches her attention. Her breath stutters as she watches them get sucked into the bubble they always create when they’re side by side like this and she finally, finally realizes why that face looks so fucking familiar.

It’s the same look she gets from Connor.

Sound rushes in her ears and for a few beats she doesn’t know which way is up anymore, only that she’s drowning. Then there’s a broad hand on her elbow, a deep voice just to her right.

“Jack. Okay?”

“Jack?” And that’s Sid shaking her other arm and she blinks back.

“Yeah. Yeah, fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” Sid says, glancing over her head at Geno.

Jack waves them off, goes as far as to take a few steps back and watches them naturally step together again, a united front. She laughs, the sound a little bit crazed. “I’m just…” She shakes her head, seriously has to bite her tongue to keep herself from blurting out that they really have to just get the fuck over themselves. “I’m going to go now.”

“Jack-”

But she’s already striding away feeling more than a little claustrophobic and like she’s about to shatter into a million pieces.

He loves her.

Connor Mc-fucking-David is completely in love with her.

This. No. This doesn’t happen to her. Sid and Geno are epic, a love story for the ages. They have an entire league cheering them on and wondering when they’re going to get together. She’s...she’s just Jack Eichel. Jack Eichel doesn’t _get_ epic romances, she just gets...hockey.

She most certainly doesn’t get this with _Connor McDavid._

She doesn’t even _want_ it with Connor McDavid.

Right?

Her hands shake as she yanks out her phone, stumbles further and further away because this is not a conversation she wants to have with Sid, let alone with Geno.

_What do you do when you find out the guy you hate is in love with you?_

She’s not even totally sure which woman that message goes to until Segs’ face is coming up on her phone.

“Dude. Listen, I’m about thirty seconds from takeoff here but is this about McDavid?”

She makes a winded noise.

“Yeah, we all knew. You’re about as subtle as Sid and Geno.”

“We are _not_ \- that’s not me,” Jack protests hotly, feeling her breath speed up sharply. She thinks this is maybe what a panic attack feels like and she does not like it, like her chest is too tight and her vision is going dark around the edges.

“Whoa, babe. Calm down. Who can I call?”

The phone is tugged from her hand and two broad arms are wrapped around her tight. Sid. Geno. Jack is not friends with Geno and she can barely tolerate Sid sometimes, but she is so, so grateful for his massive hugs and her calm voice.

“She’s fine. We’ve got her. Yeah, Geno. Shut up, Segs. Yeah, I’ll keep you posted. We’ll keep it between us for now. See you soon.”

Jack lets Geno turn her around, cup his hand around her head to shove it into his shirt. “Breathe, Jack.”

There’s an absent part of her that wonders how Geno’s so good at this, and she laughs a little hysterically when she thinks of it being Sid’s fault entirely. It would be Sid’s fault that Geno’s good with panic attacks over falling in love.

Not that she’s in love. Connor is. Not that that’s much better. God, she told Hanny she wouldn’t break his heart and now she can’t see any way around it.

Oh God.

“What we do?” Geno’s voice rumbles in his chest as Jack’s breath does some painful and strange stuttering. “Jack?”

Jack shakes her head and grips his shirt. Sid’s voice murmurs something about _that breathing thing_ and Jack feels Geno steady himself. He ducks his head down.

“You match me, yes?”

Jack doesn’t know what he means until his chest inflates slowly beneath her cheek then deflates. He sets up a pattern and she matches her breath to his until the black recedes from her vision and she feels less like her heart is going to explode. She raises a hand, pats his chest.

“Good.”

“Jack.”

Sid’s voice is hard, but there’s something in her face when their eyes meet, something sympathetic and knowing. It’s like Sid can’t help flicking her gaze to Geno.

“It’s not…it’s okay.” She shrugs. “It’s…it’s still hockey.”

Which is easy for her to say. Her star-crossed hockey love shit is a thing for the ages. Her whole fucking life is a movie and Jack’s is not. No love story, no sweeping the awards, accolades always punctuated by a rivalry she’d had no say in and now emotions she cannot handle.

And while Sid might understand forced rivalries, the one she’s had with Ovie has never come close to defining who she is as a hockey player. Even when he’d pulled ahead of her in the points race, his narrative has _never_ overshadowed hers. “Not...not the way it is with you, Sid.” Her voice is hoarse, like she’s been crying and she really, really hates that. Her breathing hitches again and Geno’s hand rubs soothingly up and down her back as he continues to coax her to take deep breaths.

“It’s what you make of it,” Sid returns stubbornly.

Geno makes a confused sound, probably from all the roundabout talking. Sid just shakes her head and at least Jack can count on her not to spill the beans on some random Toronto street.They’re lucky no one’s recognized them yet. “I should go back,” she mutters, wanting nothing more than to go to sleep and just forget she ever had this little revelation.

“We’ll walk you,” Sid says, and Jack knows better than to protest.

 

Maybe it’s dumb, but Jack has never been able to let anything rest in her life. Certainly not things as big as this. So, she goes hunting for Connor the moment all the room assignments go out for World Cup.

Her stomach feels like it hits the ground because his face actually _lights up_ when he opens the door and spots her. “Jack! What - nice to see you too,” he says as she pushes past him into the room. His smile fades a little bit as she paces in front of the window. “What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”

The concern in his voice is messing with her head. _Everything_ about him is messing with her head and she cannot have that, she _can’t_. “This, this _thing-”_ she manages, gesturing between them. “This has got to stop.”

“I don’t understand.” He reaches out, his fingers just barely touching her wrist and just that alone is enough to set her on fire.

That’s it. Jack just loses it, and honestly, she’s had enough Connor McDavid-related moments of insanity to last a lifetime _._ “ _You're not in love with me,”_ she hisses. This was a bad idea, confronting him in the hotel where any of their teammates can possibly hear but she doesn't give a flying fuck right now because this is something that has to end right now.

Connor, damn him, looks mostly unperturbed. “Maybe you should let me decide that?” he asks mildly and all that calm is just infuriating.

“No,” she snaps. “Because from day one, my life has been tied to yours, all this fucking _McEichel_ nonsense. It's like no matter where I go, I can't escape it. Not in the NTDP, not in the NCAA. And most certainly not _here,_ where half of what anyone asks me is what the hell you're doing, as if I have a clue. Or if I _care._ And it’s never, ever like they turn around and ask you the same things. _”_ Jack takes a deliberate step back when he steps forward, wrapping her arms around herself like a defensive shield because she doesn’t want any of his brand of comfort. Or pity.

“Jack, I'm sorry, I never thought-”

Her laugh is bitter and stinging. “Of course you didn't. It would never even _occur_ to you because you've always been first. And you're a _man_.” All of those deep, ugly feelings swirl through her again, sharp and tearing and relentless, a hurricane in her veins. “I can't do this,” she mutters. “I can't stand here pretending to be your friend when all of this is between us.”

His eyes cloud over with hurt and finally, _finally_ there's a reaction. “We _are_ friends, Jack-”

“No, we're fuckbuddies, _McJesus_. Get it straight.”

His face slowly flushes red, his fingers curling into fists at his side. Anger or hurt, she doesn’t know. She doesn’t fucking care. “You don't mean that.”

“Don't I?” Jack says meanly, viciously satisfied despite the fact that her guts are turning themselves inside out. “That's all it was, and all it ever will be. So deal.” She turns tail before he can respond, shoving out the door and sprinting down the hallway until she bursts through the door to the stairwell.

Her eyes burn, and her breathing is harsh and ragged as she leans against the railing. It's for the best, she tells herself. She never wanted this, never wanted _him._ It's better that she cut it off now before it could get any deeper.

 

Jack ignores all of Connor’s texts and calls, and maneuvers the other girls between them at every single team opportunity she can before he gets the hint. It doesn’t stop him from sending her looks that make it seem like she’s killed his dog or something. The resulting combination of guilt and stubborn self-righteousness that surges through her afterwards always makes her want to throw up.

Nuge, Steph and Mallory know something’s up, but don’t ask. Segs and Sid _definitely_ know, but are too busy with Team Canada to run interference, thank god for small mercies.

But then McLellan throws everything upside down by putting her on Connor’s wing. And fine, objectively she knows there are too many centers for everyone to play their natural position. She’s not the only one being shuffled around, and she can understand why they want to try Connor’s skill rather than her power. Whatever. It’s fine.

Except it’s really not. It’s like the emotion is bleeding right through onto the ice and half the time they can’t seem to get the puck on the tape. It’s the kind of problem that would be fixed just by putting somebody else in, but...there are times when they both forget who they’re playing with and the gaping open wound between them. When they remember it’s hockey _,_ it’s so seamless and smooth, often to the point where the coaching staff are beside themselves and the rest of the team wonders why they can’t get their shit together.

Even Stromer gets in on it, texting her: _You know, if you got over this whole hating him thing, you'd probably never stop scoring._ Marns is asking her if he needs to defend Connor’s honor _again_ , and Hanny’s plain disappointed. She ignores them all.

They take the win over Finland, 2-1, with no help from their line, only to be crushed by Russia the next day, 4-3. Geno slams her into the boards more than a few times, but it’s only when he shoves Connor, who goes down and stays down, that she takes exception. “What the _fuck_ ,” she screams, skating up and shoving at him.

Geno’s smile is all bully, nothing of the fond softness from a few days ago. “Baby Buffalo mad I ruin McEichel?”

In the resulting fight they both take timeouts in the box, and Ovie ends up scoring the game-winning goal off the resulting four-on-four.

She’s so, so furious - mostly with herself - after that loss, especially because it means they have to basically murder Sweden to get to the semi-finals.

McLellan takes the loss in stride, though he’s certainly pointed in the post-game notes once the media leave. Jack can feel herself blushing with shame, but no one seems to blame her. She gets more than her fair share of sympathetic shoulder-taps as the guys make their way to the shower.

Connor is quiet though, and he waits until all the other guys have disappeared into the showers, and Nuge, Steph and Mallory into the smaller one for the women. His injury wasn’t serious at all, he’d just been a little dazed from the hit. “You shouldn’t have let him get to you like that,” he murmurs, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other.

Jack snorts, gathering up her towel. “Don’t be so full of yourself, McDavid. I would have done that for anyone.” Her heart definitely hadn’t seized in her chest to see him go down, and rage hadn’t blinded her at all, so.

His face contorts. “Anyone, huh?” he says derisively.

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

He steps right into her space, but like hell if she’s going to be intimidated by him. Or be distracted by his closeness. “What I mean, Jack, is that you need to open your eyes and see how amazing we can be! Both here _and_ out there.” He makes a soft noise, almost pleading. “Can’t you feel it? It feels perfect. It feels _right._ ”

No, no, she can’t listen to this. “You’re delusional,” she snaps, moving to step around him, but all he does is mirror her.

“No, _you’re_ the one refusing to see what right in front of you.”

That particular statement has her looking at him in the eye and whatever feeling, whatever _fear_ she has must show because he softens. “Jack,” he murmurs, in that voice and that _fucking_ look, and no, she can’t take this or she’ll shatter into a million pieces.

Jack’s not proud of herself, but she runs once more, this time into the showers, where Nuge, Steph and Mallory are staring at her with wide eyes, having clearly eavesdropped on the entire thing. “Please don’t,” she begins, holding up a hand. “I _can’t-”_

Her voice breaks and suddenly she’s crying, everything she’s been holding back since the beginning of the tournament, hell, since his confession in Vegas this summer, spilling out in hot, gross sobs. The three of them exchange looks, and then gentle hands are stripping her down and guiding her into the shower. It’s gentleness and understanding that she didn’t know she needed, and she accepts it gratefully.

They’re with her every step of the way, a human shield between her and the rest of the team. They tuck her into bed, Nuge curling on one side and Steph the other, while Mallory claims the foot of the bed. Jack buries her face into Steph’s shoulder, letting the tears fall over everything she wants and doesn’t think she can have.

“Would it really be that bad?” Steph asks when she’s cried herself out, just wavering on the edge of sleep. Mallory and Nuge have already dropped off, warm and comforting. “You and him?”

Jack picks at a loose thread on Steph’s Preds shirt. “Of course it would. Come on, Steph, you know me.”

“Yeah, Eichs, I do. That’s why I’m asking. Because from where I’m standing Davo wasn’t wrong. When you guys are on, you are _on_ and it’s hockey magic. You guys are unstoppable.”

“And that means we should also be in love?” Jack asks with a sarcastic roll of her eyes. “This isn’t a movie. This is real life. And hockey-playing chicks like me don’t get the guy. Not forever.”

“ _Why?_ ” Steph stresses. “I mean, sure Sid and Geno are basically pathetic at this point and who the fuck knows what’s going on with Segs and Bennie, but Nuge makes it work, doesn’t she? And she’s got two of them.”

“Nuge is nice. And doesn’t have to be better than Hallsy or Ebs.”

“Isn’t that the point?” Steph argues and an alarm sounds sluggishly in Jack’s head. There’s a trap coming; she can feel it. “Part of being in a relationship is having someone who brings out the best in you, who pushes you to be better, the best version of yourself. You...you’re so lucky to have someone who _wants_ to be that for you.” Her voice turns wistful for a moment. “That kind of thing doesn’t come along every day and sometimes it...doesn’t come along at all.” Before Jack can say anything, address the thing in Steph’s voice that makes her sound so small and hopeless, Steph’s voice firms. “All I’m saying, Jack, is that you need to take a good, hard look at what you want, because maybe it isn’t what you think it is.”

“I just wanted to play hockey.”

Steph snorts, shrugs her shoulder to nudge Jack’s head. “Dumbass, what else have you been doing all this time?”

Jack swallows down her reply because Steph just doesn’t get it. She sniffs instead and buries her face back in Steph’s shoulder where slowly, eventually, she falls asleep.

 

The shit hits the fan the next day. McLellan pokes his head into the locker room and motions for both Jack and Connor to follow him. The team falls quiet as they head out and Jon Cooper steps in, clearly ready to tell them _something_.

Jack feels a sense of impending doom, one that’s confirmed when she spots Marie, head of Team North America’s PR, leaning against McLellan’s desk. “Have you checked the news?” she asks without preamble.

Both of them shake their heads, confused. McLellan sighs, and Marie hands Jack her iPad, motioning for Connor to look over her shoulder.

_Season-long rivalry the key to beating Team NA?_ the tweet reads. Jack swallows and taps the link, torn between horror and rage. Her hands are shaking.

Connor inhales sharply. “How did this happen?”

“Some of the press were lingering in the hallway after the scrum yesterday,” McLellan says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “They heard you two shouting at each other. No words, but they could infer from the tone.”

Marie looks oddly sympathetic. “We have a statement prepared for both you and Connor once the press comes in after practice. It’s pretty simple. He didn’t want you to take that chance, and you were just defending your teammate. You’re still figuring out how to work together.”

Even _that_ rubs her the wrong way, but then she starts reading and has to bite back a scream.

_Speculation has been rampant this season as to whether this epic rivalry is hiding an epic romance, but all it seems to be doing is tearing apart Team North America._

Marie touches her shoulder. “Can you two handle that?” When they both nod, she smiles. “Good. I’ll go and tell the team, too.”

McLellan doesn’t waste any time. The moment the door closes behind Marie, he leans forward. “Look, I won’t even pretend to know what’s going on with you two, if it is the rivalry or some other thing. But if you want them to shut up? Get your acts together. Help us get to the semi-finals.”

There isn’t much more to say after that. Practice is good, not great, and when it comes time for the media to come in, Jack recites the press lines on autopilot, which is definitely not her style. All she wants to do is get out of there, away from the goddamn story and the expectations and just...everything.

The others don’t even protest when she decides to skip out on any post-practice socializing. That should have been the first clue. The World Cup doesn’t stop fucking hockey players from gossiping like teenage girls. Yet she’s still uncomfortably surprised when a knock on her hotel room door reveals Segs, Carey and, of all people, Sid.

“This is messing with my pre-game,” Sid begins, every inch disapproving.

Segs rolls her eyes. “Sid, we talked about this. There are more things in life than hockey, Jesus.”

“Except,” Carey says, and her eyes are too fucking perceptive for Jack. “This is kind of hockey.”

“Do not encourage her,” Segs scolds, shoving her way into Jack’s room. She perches on the end of the bed and pats the mattress. Jack goes warily and sits. Carey settles at her side as Sid pulls over the chair from the desk. “We gotta talk about McDavid, Eichs.”

Jack growls, runs a hand through her hair. “For fuck’s sake. It’s all anyone wants to talk about. It’s fine. We’re fine.”

Segs makes an disbelieving sound. “Maybe one day you’ll learn to lie better than that.”

“You know you look as miserable as he does?” Carey asks mildly.

“Traitor.”

“Jack.”

Fuck. She hates Sid’s captain voice and this is really the first time she’s heard it. It makes her want to sit at attention and click her heels together. “Yes?”

“This is no longer about you and Connor. It’s affecting your team now, and that can’t happen. It needs to be resolved, one way or another.”

“He just needs to not be in love with me. End of discussion.” Even as she says the words, the possibility of it actually happening strikes the wrong chord inside her.

Segs slaps her upside the head, and ow, that _hurts_. Jack shoves at her, swearing, but then Segs and Carey smush her between them. She can take Segs because she’s so damn skinny, but Carey’s a goalie and therefore tricky. “Oh my god. I thought you were a reasonable person, Eichs, but this level of having your head up your ass is just insanity. Carey, you might have to hogtie her to the bed.”

“I can’t hogtie her _to_ the bed, I’d have to hogtie her _on_ the bed,” Carey points out, completely deadpan.

“This is not the time for semantics.”

“Ladies.”

It’s a little gratifying to see Segs and Carey straighten the same way Jack does. Sid checks her watch. “We need to get going...well, now, so I’m going to get straight to the point, Jack. You’ve been trying so hard to fight the media narrative that you’ve played into it.”

“We’ve all faced it. And we’ve also done it in our own way,” Carey adds.

Segs pokes at Jack until she finally looks at her. Segs is solemn now, the way she was the day they met. “And we’re not trying to tell you what to do Jack, honest. You gotta do you. But…” her eyes flick to the ceiling and she sighs. “But is this what you really wanted?”

“Or is it really so bad that you ended up here?” Sid says softly. She clearly doesn’t mean the World Cup or the NHL.

Jack says nothing, but her gaze drops down to where her fingers are twisted in her lap. “I...I don’t…”

There’s another short knock at the door and suddenly all three of them are up and heading towards it, leaving Jack floundering at the abruptness of it all. “Think it over, Jack,” Sid advises. “And talk it through. The others are under orders not to let you out until _some_ agreement has been reached.”

“Hopefully in the time it takes us to beat Team USA,” Segs adds gleefully. Jack doesn’t even get a chance to protest or ask what the hell they’re on about before they’re out the door and Connor is shoved inside, because of course he is. Hockey players are nothing if not annoyingly predictable. She’s just lucky they haven’t shoved them in a closet.

He stumbles a little bit, turning to face the door before it swings shut in his face.

“Guards outside?” Jack asks dryly, hunched over from her spot on the bed.

“Yeah. Steph and Eks.”

_That’s_ surprising. “They roped Ekblad into this thing too?”

His lips twist, more cynical than she ever would have expected from him. “Pretty sure I wouldn’t have ended up here any other way. He tricked me.”

The barb is deliberate, she thinks, and more than a little fair. Still, it stings. “How do they expect us to go along with this? We can just sit here in painful, awkward silence or, I don’t know, turn on the TV.”

“Saader,” he says simply and Jack’s eyes go wide. That’s just underhanded, threatening them with their team captain. Everyone’s a little bit in awe of him - hard not to be, when the guy has two Stanley Cups under his belt and has played on the Hawks’ top line with Tazer and Hossa. Everyone wants to impress him and live up to his expectations. If they get him involved, he’ll just sigh sadly and give them disappointed looks until they break down in tears or something.

He’s already tried talking to Jack about the whole thing. She’s not proud of the fact that she dodged him by ducking into the ladies’ room. “Crap,” she mumbles.

Connor ambles over to the window. His hands are shoved as deep as they can go in his pockets, and his shoulders are bunched up nearly to his ears. “Look, we can-”

“You have to understand, McDavid,” she interrupts and fuck. It looks like she’s really doing this. “I was in the NTDP and people were starting to say that I could really have a future in hockey. I was thinking, hey, maybe I can go into the CHL or the NCAA and see how high I can go in the draft.” She’s still focused on her hands, but she can see the way he turns his head towards her, listening. “Except...even then everyone kept talking about that one kid from Canada. No matter what I do, I always come up short even though-”

Something twists tight in her chest and she stops, shakes her head. “Even though we’re matched.” It’s the first time she’s ever admitted that they’re on equal standing. Their skills might lie in different areas, but what it comes down to is that they both play fucking beautiful hockey.

Jack plows straight on because now that she’s started, she can’t stop. “But no one can admit that because I’m a _woman_. So yes, I took every possible path _away_ from you just to stop the comparisons but they never stop. I’m constantly reminded that I’m always going to be second to you by some freaking twist of chromosomes so of course I have the biggest goddamn chip on my shoulder. And I just…” She thinks back to what she said to Steph last night. “I want to _play._ And I want to be the best.”

His hand falls tentatively on her shoulder and Jack jumps, but she doesn’t shove him away. How did he end up next to her without her noticing? His face is downright angry despite the softness of his touch, and for the first time since she chewed him out in his hotel room, she doesn’t think it’s directed at her. “You _are_ the best.”

She scoffs at the platitude. “Thanks, McJesus.”

“No, Jack.” His hand drops from her shoulder, reaches blindly for hers because he can’t seem to drag his eyes away from her face. “Jesus, you really think that award matters? You really need the players, the league, to recognize that you’re fucking amazing?”

She snorts and rolls her eyes, drops them only to see the way he’s tangled their fingers together. “No. But it’s nice to hear sometimes.”

“I’ve seen you play,” he tells her. “I’ve played with you and against you. You are beautiful on the ice. You’re smart, you know this game inside out and other than your habit of trying to do _everything_ ,” and even she has to chuckle a little now, watery, because yeah, she’ll never be accused of slacking off, “you went second overall in the fucking NHL draft and you’re _playing_. I don’t know what else you need here. You are a phenomenal hockey player.”

“You’re better. You’re the one that went first.” It kind of sounds pathetic, leaving the words hanging in the air like that, but there it is, the hill she’s been trying to climb for so long she can’t remember when she started.

He outright growls this time and it makes Jack freeze. She feel like she’s missing something, like he’s trying to say something other than all of these platitudes about how good she is because they fucked a handful of times.

He opens and closes his mouth a few times, like he isn’t sure where to start before he blurts, “Do you think I carry you?”

Anger flares for a moment. “What the fuck-?”

“On the ice. Here. Team North America. Do you think I’m dragging you along out there? Do you think that I’m the reason for what happens out there when we stop thinking about what’s between us and just remember that it’s _hockey_ -” He cuts himself off with a grunt.  “Do you think that’s all me?”

“Of course not, you asshole.” Jack shoves him, reaches out to shove him again when he just grins at her. “I am that fucking good, what the hell?”

Connor catches her hands, tugs her in. She smacks at him and for a minute, it degenerates into a playful tussle that belies the seriousness, the heaviness of their conversation. It eventually tumbles them both backwards on the bed.

“Jack,” he whispers and her breath catches as his fingers brush her cheek, tuck her hair behind her ear. “We’re good together because we’re good by ourselves.”

She looks away, but he reaches out with one hand, makes her look at him.

“The rivalry, our _story_...” He rolls his eyes, as visibly annoyed about the whole thing as she’s ever seen him. “It’s crap. It’s always been crap. You’re more than good, Jack. You’re fucking _amazing._ You make me better every time you’re out there on the ice because you push _me_. That’s why the rivalry is so dumb, it keeps pitting us against each other when all we really do is make each other better.”

She’s never thought about it like that. She’s always assumed the rivalry never bothered him because he went first, because he was the man and his story had always felt so much different than hers. He hasn’t had to fight half as hard for his place. There hasn’t been a shadow to contend with. Except, there has been, the whole time. They’re both fighting to come out from under the story the media wants to tell and Jack knows Sid is right. She’s been playing into it the whole time.

And there’s something else too, some underlying edge of something more in what he’s saying, something perilously close to the way he’s looking at her right now, that look of mingled affection and… “Careful,” she warns softly. “You’re coming pretty close to being sappy, McDavid.”

He actually has the audacity to roll his eyes at her. “I _am_ sappy about you, Jack. You’ve figured that out already.”

“But...why?” She’s genuinely confused. It was easy enough to think he was just going along with it for the sex because well, he’s a teenage boy. And everything he’s just said talks more about being in love with her hockey, which is an entirely different animal than loving her.

“Well, it was your hockey first,” he admits. “I admired you even before you showed up at my door in December. You just...you don’t do anything halfway, and I kept seeing that, all the times we were thrown together and I just...I wanted to know more. I wanted to know everything. I kept hoping that we could be friends.”

Now she feels a stab of guilt because of the way she’d deliberately avoided him, had done everything in her power to put Hanny and the other guys between them.

God, she’s been wrong. So, so wrong. She thought that hating him and fighting him would make it all go away. Instead, she’d let the media dictate her relationship with him and the story she had to tell, rather than telling her own. Segs was right: she’d gained nothing from it. She’s hurt them both when they could have been shattering records and just being really goddamn amazing.

It had also blinded her to all the possibilities of what else they could be.

“The sex was definitely a perk too,” Connor says blandly, breaking the moment at just the right time and she’ll never tell him, but she’s grateful. Jack snorts, punching him in the shoulder.

“ _Yeah_ it was. But…” she hesitates, wondering, because back then he was the one to make the first move. “Why did you kiss me, back in December?”

His cheeks flush, his thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone so very reverently. “I’m not entirely sure,” he admits. “I just...I don’t know, it was like the first time you really _saw_ me and it was electrifying. I’d seen you with that fire in your eyes before and it always took my breath away, but when it was focused on me...well it was kind of devastating. I couldn’t help it.”

It’s the kind of confession epic love stories are based on, Jack thinks somewhat dazedly. And she still can’t quite believe it’s directed at _her._ Words completely desert her, which is fine because he keeps talking. “And back in June, when you let me pull the pins from your hair, when…when you let me take care of you...that was it. I was gone.”

Jesus. His face needs to stop that. She can’t catch her breath. His eyes  - she’s never been able to pin down the color, shifting from blue to green to grey. Apt, considering that she never quite knows how to see _him._ Rival, lover, possible friend...her mind sticks on the word _lover_ and for the life of her, she can’t look away. “But I kept pushing you away.”

Connor shrugs, smiling wryly. They’re so close now, tucked together on the bed. He’s got a hand on her hip, the other sliding along her cheek, her jaw. Her hands have curled themselves into the fabric of his shirt without her noticing, like she’s afraid he’s going to leave.  “Maybe I’m just a sucker. Stromer and Marns kept telling me to just give up but...hope’s a pretty powerful thing.” He takes a deep breath, his expression flickering briefly into shadow. “Because maybe you wouldn’t have reacted so strongly to the idea of us if you didn’t feel _something_.”

“Feeling something is never the problem. Admitting it is, especially when it’s something like...” She waves vaguely. The softer emotions have never been easy for her - affection, sure, but love is something she needs time to adjust to. “Yeah. But I...I do feel...something for you, Connor.” God, she sounds so incredibly lame, but his eyes light up at the sound of his name and okay, those butterflies need to stop. She’s Jack Eichel, she doesn’t _get_ butterflies. She’d been stone cold during the _draft_ and that is probably, hands-down the most butterfly-worthy moment in her life.

But...now she has them. And that definitely means something.

“Wow, _something_ ,” he remarks dryly, still grinning like she’s the best thing he’s ever seen. “Is this the confessional equivalent of ‘good game?’”

Goddammit. He’s _such_ a little shit. “That’s how I roll,” she says breezily, knocking her head against his lightly. Because while she does have said feelings, she’s not about to vomit hearts and rainbows everywhere.

The door beeps and slides open. Eks and Steph peer in suspiciously. “Are you two okay?” Eks ventures. “We just wanted to make sure no one’s dead-” He trails off, seeing the way they’re curled together on the bed. “Oh.” A beatific smile blossoms across his face. “Well. We’ll just leave you two alone then.”

“Oh no we _won’t_ ,” Steph cuts in firmly, glaring. “That’s _my_ bed. There will be no shenanigans on _my_ bed. If you two have finally got your shit together, we’re going to watch our guys beat the Canadians downstairs at the bar.”

“I’m sorry, I could have sworn you just said the US will beat Canada,” Eks shoots back. “The reigning Olympic and World Champion Team Canada.”

“Exactly. Your luck’s run out.”

“Luck?” And this time it’s Connor who sounds a little offended, disentangling himself, albeit reluctantly, to eye Steph. “ _Luck_?”

Jack can’t resist it. “You can’t just rely on Sid to score. She isn’t a team.”

“I’m telling Segs you said that,” Connor threatens, but his grin is so wide and it matches hers.

“How adorably patriotic,” Jack coos, lets herself dance her fingers down his back because she can, because she doesn’t have to feel weird or self-conscious about it. It’s good, surprisingly good, and they just beam at one another for a moment.

“You guys are gross,” Steph rules, but her smile isn’t any less happy, something relaxed in it now unlike last night. “Are you coming or not?”

“Hell yeah.” Because Jack is a hockey player and watching Connor’s face turn a little red at Steph’s chirp about Canadian luck had been pretty amazing. “Connor here’s going to buy me an expensive dinner when the US dominates.”

Connor pulls her back, just before she’s about to clear the door. She has an insult on her tongue, changing his mind or the fact that maybe he’s changing his alliances. But he just smiles, and leans down to kiss her. “Missed that.”

“God, you are sappy.”

“Tell that to the steak you’re buying me when Canada wins.”

“Like _hell_.”

 

They absolutely _light it up_ against Sweden. With the air finally clear between them, their hockey just goes to another level and Jack finally believes because damn, it’s beautiful hockey. It’s like they know exactly where to find each other on the ice, despite the speed and all the bodies between them. Jack opens up the scoring when Connor goes in deep behind the net, slinging the puck to her. The shot practically has no chance, coming from the goal line, but it deflects off Lundqvist’s back and into the goal.

Connor plasters her to the boards, yelling in her ear the entire time. “Fucking right, Jack!” he exclaims before Johnny, Steph, and Eks are on them as well.

The second time, it’s her turn for the assist, streaking up the ice on a breakaway. She doesn’t even _see_ Connor but somehow she knows he’s there to her left. Then it’s all him, fooling Lundqvist with some ridiculous stickhandling, faking a backhand and then shifting to shoot it five-hole before he can even react.

She could kiss him right there but that would probably cause an international incident. Then she scores off another assist from him only seconds into the second period.

Connor beams at her during the celly. “Let’s go for the hatty, eh?”

Jack immediately flashes back to Edmonton and yeah, she’s probably blushing. “You gonna get me there, Davo?” she chirps with an absolutely filthy grin. Hats on the ice of the Air Canada Center, all for her? Yeah, she likes the idea. Johnny mutters something about them being disgusting and takes off.

“Is there any doubt?” he returns, smirking. He has confidence oozing out of every pore and honestly, it's such a good look for him.

“That's what I'm talking about,” McLellan says with satisfaction when they get back to the bench. “I knew you could do it.”

But Jack wants her hatty. The crowd does too, because the chant goes up. “ _One more time! One more time!”_

She scores off one of Connor’s rebounds. The ice is covered in hats, mostly Leafs and Team North America, but there are a few Buffalo ones in the mix as well. It's one of the most beautiful sights she's ever seen and she gathers a bunch of them in her arms, waving to the crowd as she skates off.

They take the win over Sweden, 4-1. They’re going to the World Cup semifinals.

She has a perma-grin on her face. There’s literally nothing she can do to wipe it off, no question the media can ask her about playing as a woman, against and alongside teammates and rivals alike. There’s no repetition of her answers that can bring her down.

“How does it feel to play alongside Eichel rather than against her?”

She hears the question just off to her right, turns her head to catch Connor’s mirroring grin. It must look fucking stupid, the way they can’t stop beaming at each other. She does not fucking care.

“I’ve said it all along,” he starts and she sees that thing shift in his eyes again, feels the ensuing warmth that melts in her stomach. “She’s amazing. She’s always been amazing. It is an absolute pleasure to get the chance to play with Jack.”

The reporter is not an idiot, not that they’re really subtle. “And your relationship with her? She’s gone on record saying you’re barely friends.”

Connor laughs too hard and Jack can feel the warm flush on her face. She can pass it off as exertion to the press, but Connor’s look says he definitely knows better. “She lies.”

It’s all he says about the matter, and when the microphone is turned in her direction, she’s not all that inclined to add anything more than a repetition of how much fun it is to play with him, how it feels to have a hatty at this level. Finally, the press vacates and she gets her shower and still, she cannot wipe the grin off her face.

She loops her wet hair into a quick bun before wrapping the towel securely around herself and heading back to the locker room. They’re the last ones there - because apparently, when you fall in love with your rival and connect so brilliantly you score yourself a hatty, your media scrums are twice as large and twice as long - and he looks up from his phone. It is a little satisfying when his eyes are drawn to her immediately, murky and burning with the same muted arousal she’s had humming in her veins since they’d decided on three goals.

She arches an eyebrow at him as the ball of heat in her stomach flares. “You’ve seen it all before.”

That gaze is like a physical caress. “Not like this.”

Not with this bubble of joy hanging over them. Not when neither of them can seem to stop grinning. She can feel the itch under her skin, the one that makes her want to just wrap her arms around his neck, let him press her into the wall. She goes as far as to consider it for a moment, a flash and she hears him make a filthy noise.

He hooks the tips of his fingers in her towel to pull her close and takes her mouth in a rough, biting, ecstatic kiss that leaves her panting and dizzy, her fingers clutching at his suit jacket. “Get dressed. We need to get back to the hotel.”

Before they start something here. She all but vibrates with it, with everything making an utter mess of her insides, but she can’t lie and say it doesn’t feel good. It feels good not to have their relationship hanging over her head; it feels good to be on the same page as he is; it feels good to have him close, to know that she’s going to have him naked in half an hour or less.

She steps away from him to grab her phone, unlocks it and tosses it his way. “Text Steph. Tell her to bunk with Nuge and Mallory tonight.”

When his gaze doesn’t leave her to do as he’s told, she rolls her eyes. “Dude. Focus. Faster you focus the faster you get me naked again.”

She’s not sure she’s ever put her clothes on that fast in her life. Connor hands her phone back over, his other hand firmly in his pocket again and god she needs on a bed, stat. She can see the restraint he’s using to keep himself in check and she wants it gone.

_You suck_ , is Steph’s eloquent response.

_Only if he asks nicely._

_Gross_.

Jack cackles with laughter as she leads the way out, gear bag over her shoulder and him at her back. Their hands brush as they emerge into the early Toronto fall and she speeds up, anxious, excited. His laughter is soft beside her, but when she glances his way, catches his gaze, she can tell his mindset isn’t that different from hers.

She wants him. Badly.

They stand on opposite sides of the elevator, the air thick between them. He keeps darting glances towards the numbers as it climbs, sidles a little closer as it nears her floor. “You looking for another hatty here?”

The heat that image brings leaves her limbs tingling with warm anticipation. “If you think you can do it,” she says with a grin that’s curling towards predatory around the edges. “You first though. Can’t have you going off before we’re done.”

“Wanna bet?”

The elevator doors slide open. “No,” she murmurs, crowds in close after they step off. The gear bags make it awkward, but Jack doesn’t care. “I want to suck you off before you reward me for three really pretty goals.”

“I had three pretty nice assists _and_ a goal,” he says as he follows her down the hall. His voice is rough, maybe a little challenging and the arousal spikes and flares in her belly. They’re so close, so very, very close and she feels desperate for this, her hands on him and his hands on her.

“Exactly. So, you go first, then you can assist me to three pretty nice orgasms.” she replies when they reach her door, when he crowds her up against it. “Then we don’t have to worry about this-” and he’s already well on his way to hard when she cups him through his suit pants, “getting in the way.”

His breath catches so beautifully and his hands come up to brace against the door behind her. “Jack, fuck.” He takes her mouth, rough, wet and hot, barely giving her space to adjust to the ferocity of it. “Get us inside. Now.”

“Pushy, pushy,” she murmurs, but turns and does as he’s asked just as eager and on edge. She’s dropping her bag and spinning before the door’s closed behind them and she shoves him back against it with two hands on his chest. His bag hits the floor at his feet with a dull thud. They’re probably, _definitely_ , going to trip over them later, but Jack’s already reaching for his belt, tugging the buckle loose.

“Fuck,” she hears him breathe and the quick skim of his hand over her neck brings her face up, the perfect angle to get at his mouth. She’s not nice about it, riding the desperate edge she is, but he gives as good as he gets, nips sharply at her lip as he angles her head the way he wants.

She doesn’t bother to pull the belt from his pants, just reaches immediately for his fly and shoves his boxers down with his pants. He feels wonderful in her hand, even with the loose grip she has and he groans. She laughs into his mouth.

“Got enough coordination to get that shirt off?” she asks, right against his lips. Her hand doesn’t stop moving, her fingers a tease as he tries to undo his shirt with one hand, the other still buried in her hair. God, he must have a thing for her curls and that too makes her shiver hard against him. It’s not just her curls he has a thing for; it’s _her_.

“What?” he murmurs, fingers curling in her scalp a little. “You can’t be cold; you’re still wearing everything.”

His voice says it’s a shame and while she’s inclined to agree she also has a goal here and it will be better served if there is less of her skin on display. “You have a thing for me.”

Everything in him goes soft and a little pliant even though her tone is teasing, taunting. The hand that had been fussing with his buttons cups the side of her neck - a part of her laments that, she’s so close to having him totally naked here and it is a body she wants to really take her time with - and his kiss is luxurious, slow. She doesn’t need the words.

“Get your shirt off,” she finally says because _game on_. “We’ve got orgasms to get to.”

She helps him anyway, fingers starting from the bottom while he pulls apart the buttons from the top. It all gets shoved to the floor and Jack takes a moment to just look. It’s a luxury she’s never allowed herself but he’s summer gold and off-season ripped, even with the World Cup. He blows out a breath when she dances her fingertips across his abs, his pecs, along his sides where she finds a couple of really great ticklish spots and the thin, sensitive skin at his hipbones.

She leans in to press her mouth to his shoulder, his neck, as his arms slide beneath her jacket. She lets him dump that to the floor and kicks off her shoes before kissing him one last time, quick and dirty before dropping to her knees. She runs her tongue from base to tip, presses a hand against his thigh then looks up at him. “Hands out of my hair.”

Connor presses them flat to the door instead and oh, oh that is an _image_. She has to press her forehead to his hip for a moment. He squirms as her breath slides over the top of his thigh and she laughs, lifts her head. He’s already panting.

“Hair trigger there, Davo?” she murmurs, right into the underside of his cock.

His fingers press against the door until his knuckles are white. He is so hot for her, that restraint so close to being shattered and she can taste it. He still manages to arch an eyebrow at her. “Faster you get me off, the faster I get you off. What are you going to want first, my fingers or my mouth?”

She groans as she swallows him and he gasps. It’s a satisfying noise given she can feel how wet her panties are. The only thing that’s keeping her from ripping her clothes off and letting him go to town is the way he feels in her mouth, the little sound he makes as she hollows her cheeks, his desperate groan when she slides him as deep as she can take him.

“Jack. God Jack. It’s so good. Fuck.”

She pulls off when he starts constantly moaning, keeps to her tongue instead. His hips jolt as she flicks it just beneath the head of his cock, her hand working up and down, twisting gently. But it isn’t until she sucks one of his balls into her mouth that his whole body goes beautifully tense and she sits back on her heels to watch the orgasm sweep through him.

There’s something very satisfying in taking him apart like this, in the way he goes lax against the door. She rocks back to her feet and shucks her clothes, stopping only when Connor recovers enough to hook two fingers into the front of her bra and pull her close. His stomach is already a little bit sticky but she sighs when he kisses her.

“Thank you,” he murmurs into her cheek and she snorts.

“So polite.”

He chuckles, kisses her again like he can’t resist. “Come on.”

He leads them to the bathroom and turns on the tap, lifts her onto the counter while he reaches for a cloth. He cleans his stomach, then hers, goes as far as to reach for a towel to pat them both dry. Then the towel is on the floor and Jack has to suck in a breath as he follows it down and uses it as a makeshift cushion for his knees.

“Preference?” he offers again, his mouth against her leg, sliding up slowly as he pushes her thighs apart.

She threads her hands into his hair, runs her nails over his scalp to watch him shiver. “Looks like you’ve got the right idea.”

He shuffles a little further between her knees, teases his fingers up the sensitive skin of her inner thighs so he can pull her panties to the side. He groans when he feels how wet they are, stops his mouth’s slow progression up her leg to give her one broad lick. She gasps, hips thrusting towards him, one leg looping around his back.

“Yes,” he breathes into her thigh, adjusts again, and dives in. Her back arches, almost cramps with the pleasure of his tongue sliding in and out of her, over her clit, exploring every single inch of her, catching every drop of her taste. She has to brace one hand behind her, rolls her hips a little when he licks into her again. It’s fast and dirty, his mouth closing over her clit to send her almost shrieking. His tongue plays over her again and she feels his shoulders shift.

He murmurs something she can’t catch before tugging on her leg to get her ass closer to the edge. A moment later he’s curling two fingers up inside her and sucking on her clit again. This time, she does let out a loud, high-pitched noise. Her hand tightens in his hair and her heel digs into his shoulder as she comes. It’s sharp and quick, enough to take the edge off but her body is still humming when he pulls away and licks her taste from his mouth.

“One.”

She laughs as he stands, reaches out to tug him in for a kiss. She doesn’t care that he tastes like her, not when she has him so close and almost skin to skin. He slides his hands under her ass and she feels him shift, testing, before he picks her up.

“Shit, _Connor_.”

He laughs as she scrambles to lock her arms around his neck and her thighs around his hips. He actually carries her to the bed, drops her down on it. “Strip.”

“I thought you wanted to do the honours.”

He shoots her a look over his shoulder as he climbs onto the bed. “Strip, Jack.”

She does as she’s asked, unhooks her bra and tosses it away as she watches him get settled, leaning back against the headboard. She shimmies her ruined panties off next and perches her hands on her hips, arches an eyebrow. “Now what?”

He just looks for a minute, long enough that Jack starts to feel a little self-conscious before he holds out a hand to her. “Come here. Back against my chest.”

She’s curious now, but takes his hand, lets him tug her and manhandle her a little until she’s positioned exactly how he wants. Her back is indeed pressed to his chest, and he lifts each of her knees over his thighs spreading her open. Her breath catches. She is so on display right now, knowledge all the more real when he hooks his chin over her shoulder.

Her muscles are still a little jumpy despite the few minutes she’s had to recover from her first orgasm of the night, so the brush of his fingers on her stomach is almost a surprise. His fingers are feather light, firmer when she starts to squirm. She can feel him getting slowly, slowly harder against her back and shifts her hips.

“Stay still.”

Her head drops back. “Fuck you. You wanted to touch me. You wanted to get me naked in the locker room. You have me naked now, so do something.”

“I am doing something,” he chirps back, his hand cupping a breast now, tweaking a nipple. Her breath catches in her chest and her eyelids flutter. His mouth presses to her pulse, the juncture of her jaw and her neck. “See? Something.”

“You’re an asshole,” she says with heat, but not the heat she wants. She groans as he kisses down her neck, slips his other hand around her other breast. She wants to close her legs, to rub them together, just a little relief, but the minute her thigh twitches, he’s bending his knees, taking away her leverage. It would be child’s play to outmuscle him, but she’s curious. “ _Come on_.”

His fingers slide down over her stomach, play against her thighs, trail out towards her knees and back in again. She reaches out to take one of his hands, the other clenched tight in the sheets beneath them.

“Seriously. Stop teasing and touch me,” she says, directing him down where she’s open, wet and waiting.

“You ready for it?”

A retort is on the tip of her tongue, but he strokes his fingers through her wetness and she shakes, hard. His fucking courtesy, and now she kind of gets it. Still.

“Yes.”

The slide of his finger is slow, testing, waiting. It isn’t too much and she moans, her grip shifting to his wrist. He shushes her gently, reaches for her other hand to tangle their fingers, press them against her stomach. She’s wrapped up in him now, intimate and close while he fucks her with two fingers, presses his palm carefully over her clit every few strokes. Her fingers clench under his on her belly.

“Oh my God, yes,” she breathes, her body rocking, fucking herself on his fingers as much as he’s fucking her with them.

“One more?” he asks, kisses her neck. “Can you take three?”

“Fuck. Please.”

He growls against her skin and slides a third finger in, presses against her clit. It’s awkward for a moment, keeping the pressure and the friction before she catches on, fucks herself on his hand in earnest. She can feel him biting a mark into her shoulder as she rises higher and higher and higher, finally breaking with a cry, her shoulder blades digging into his chest.

“Fuck,” he whispers into her skin, and if his mouth keeps going at that spot it’s going to bruise. She moans weakly at the thought, files it away.

“Jack. You...you...”

She turns her head and hums, nuzzles her nose against his cheek in a tender move that isn’t always her style. His breath shakes out and he squeezes her against him. It’s a comfort, sure, a sweet little gesture, but it also serves to remind her that he’s hard again, that fingering her has gotten him hot under the collar he’s no longer wearing.

She kisses him when he turns his head. “Condoms are in my suitcase, if you don’t mind that kind of thing.”

He licks at her lower lip, a little flick of his tongue. “Can’t get it yourself?”

No, she can’t. He’s already straightening his legs, helping her shift hers back together and said legs are not feeling too stable for the moment. Not that he needs to know that. “I thought we were celebrating me.”

“We’re always celebrating you,” Connor replies, the sincerity in every word making her positively giddy. “Let me up?”

She does, flopping back against the pillows to grin at the ceiling. She’s coasting a little, pleasantly relaxed but good for the next one. She lifts her arms above her head, uses the headboard to lengthen her stretch.

“Stop that,” he says as he comes back, condom already on. He presses kisses to her stomach, her sternum, up between her breasts until he can brush his lips against hers. With him pressed up against her like this, poised and ready to slide inside she can feel the moment the whole mood changes. Everything slows, like her brain knows this is a something to be savoured. And it is, in ways it’s never been between them. His eyes hold hers fast as he nudges at her entrance, slides inside. It’s a fight, she can see it, keeping that first push so, so slow, so, so delicious and her hips tilt accordingly, her nails digging into his arms.

“Connor,” she breathes, the same way she had only a few months ago, their positions eerily similar. He stops when he bottoms out, shifts down to his elbows with a desperate, reverent noise, brushes his lips over her cheek and her nose before he kisses her mouth, sweet and tender.

Her hips are moving without her permission, tiny little hitching thrusts because he isn’t moving. Jack sighs into his mouth, shudders and opens to him. It’s hot and wet and maybe a little bit like he’s still trying to prove to her she’s so amazing. She lets him because she wants to enjoy this one. It feels wonderful having him above her like this, pushing her down into the mattress. Her hips roll and he moans into her mouth, pulling away to pant into her ear. She finds the scar on his collarbone with her mouth, presses her lips there to wait him out.

“Jack.”

“Yes.”

His rhythm isn’t fast, nor is it decidedly slow. It’s designed to give him what he wants, the friction and the heat, while still making her feel every inch. She wraps her legs around his hips, opens herself wider and he groans into her ear again. It’s good for a few minutes and Jack’s kind of just floating with it. Honestly, she’s not even thinking about her next orgasm, too caught up in the smell of him, the taste of him.

“Hey,” he pants and she feels his hand wiggle beneath her hips, press against the small of her back. “Hold on.”

It’s all the warning she gets and her eyes widen as he tips over. She goes with him, laughs and finishes the roll, presses her forehead to his. His hands bracket her hips and he thrusts up as he pulls her down and oh, oh she’s thinking of that hatty now.

“Yes,” he whispers because it must be all over her face. “That’s it.”

She matches his rhythm as easily here as she had on the ice, reads every twitch of his hands and lets him drive her further and further towards that edge.

“Jack, what do you-?”

Want, need, she doesn’t care. She just needs him. She whimpers and reaches for his hand at her hip, tucks his fingers between her legs. He moans and catches on, splays a hand over her lower back. It keeps him buried in her, deep and thick. She circles her hips instead, creates a steady press and release against the fingers on her clit and feels that third orgasm blossom in her spine.

Sure enough, a moment later it does, whiting out her world for a wonderful, glorious moment as she rides wave after wave after wave. He follows after her, saying her name over and over as his hips jerk upwards one more time.

Jack collapses over him, completely winded, not even protesting when they roll on their sides in a sweaty, tangled pile of limbs. She can feel his lips against her forehead, the shape of their curve, when he murmurs, “Good game.”

She lets out something half snort, half giggle. “Hell yeah.”

* * *

 

It’s another one of those years where they don’t meet on the ice until late November but fuck is Jack excited for it. She’s just about giddy. It’s been two months of strangely snatched nights when one or the other is in the right conference or they have more than three consecutive days off and it’s…it’s actually good. Difficult, but good.

She laughs, loud and bright, as she comes off her first shift having shoved Hallsy into the boards to strip him of the puck. It coincides with Connor skating by and it’s like he can’t help himself as he meets her eyes. Zemgus elbows her.

“Game first, cow eyes later,” he grumbles, but the tiny smile absolutely betrays him.

It doesn’t even bother her, not really because five minutes later, she’s flicking the puck to Evander and he’s tucking it into the Edmonton net. She screams as she slams Evander into the boards, catches Connor’s eye as she pushes out of the hug. He arches an eyebrow as she skates over and she lets her grin slip to something a little more predatory.

“So,” she says conversationally while the crowd screams for a second time over Evander’s goal. “Points equals orgasms later?”

He trips and she skates away, cackling.

 

**Author's Note:**

> HOW DID THIS HAPPEN. HOW DID WE FALL IN LOVE WITH A BABY BUFFALO/GRUMPY CAT. 
> 
> Jack's media quotes about Connor McDavid are true to life. Poor kid, he's so over the rivalry narrative.
> 
> A list of women in the NHL: Sidney Crosby, Danielle (Daniel) Sedin, Marcia (Marc) Staal, Jordie Benn, Carey Price, Steph (Seth) Jones, Tyler Sequin, Ryan Nugent-Hopkins, Mallory (Malcolm) Subban, Michaela (Michael) Latta, Brenda Gallagher, and of course Jack Eichel. And there will probably be more stories about them because this universe is eating our brains.
> 
> Tumblr: [wonthetrade](http://wonthetrade.tumblr.com)


End file.
